


Bizarrely Rich Brits

by MillionDollarTeddyBear



Category: Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crazy Rich Asians Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Arthur is Nick Young, Cheating, England (Country), Established Merlin/Arthur, Established Relationship, Family Drama, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Inspired by Crazy Rich Asians, M/M, Marriage, Meddling, Meet the Family, Meeting the Parents, Merlin is Rachel Chu, Romance, Wealth, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-01-31 11:57:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21445855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillionDollarTeddyBear/pseuds/MillionDollarTeddyBear
Summary: A summer spent abroad in England, meeting his boyfriend's family and enjoying himself at his boyfriend's best friend's sweet wedding? It sounds like a picture-perfect and fun romantic trip for Merlin Emrys who agrees to go to London with his boyfriend Arthur Penn of 2 years, not knowing that Arthur is the heir to a multibillion-dollar-worth and age-old English dynasty.Thrust into a world of immeasurable wealth like he's never seen before in his life, Merlin now has a target on his back: he's the one who took the one percent's most desired bachelor off the market.Merlin & Crazy Rich Asians mash-up!(( A romance filled with meddling relatives, feuding families, conniving cousins, with a dash of private island getaways and private eyes hired to dig up portfolios of blackmail, and way more money than anyone knows what to do with ))
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 66
Kudos: 161





	1. Merlin & Arthur, New York City

**Author's Note:**

> While I loved the frothy fun fabulousness of Kevin Kwan's books, I always wanted a little more depth to the romance between Rachel and Nick, something that I hope I can apply here to this fusion of Merlin and Crazy Rich Asians!
> 
> Do I know the first thing about the real-world English 1 %? No.  
Am I still going to write this? Yes.  
I hope you like reading this!

** _PART ONE_ **

** _“If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to”_ **

** _-Dorothy Parker_ **

* * *

_ Chapter 1 _

_ Arthur Penn & Merlin Emrys _

_ New York City, USA_

“And you’re sure about this?” Merlin asked once more, looking at Arthur over the brim of his steaming cup of tea before he took a delicate sip. They were seated at their favorite table at Lacy Tea and Arthur had just invited him to spend the summer with him in England with his family. 

“I’d love it if you came, Merls,” Arthur reassured, a hand reaching out to softly clasp at the darker-haired man’s hands when he set his cup of tea down. “You weren’t even planning on teaching this summer, so what’s the problem? Do you think you won’t be able to handle the English summer?” he teased good-naturedly with a small chuckle. 

Letting out a chuckle of his own, Merlin shook his head, “No, no, it’s just that I know you’ll be busy with your best-man duties. I don’t want to distract you, y’know?”

It had been about a week ago that Arthur had ended a phone call with a wide smile, returning to his position beside Merlin on their couch where they’d been watching a historical drama about Queen Anne. Arthur, a European History professor at Columbia, made a sport out of watching period movies and pointing out inaccuracies, something that Merlin found endearingly hilarious. As he cradled himself once more into the warmth of Arthur’s body, Merlin moved to press play again when Arthur stopped him. 

“That was my mate Lance,” he stated with a small smile on his face when Merlin turned to look at him, “He’s going to get married this summer and he wants me to be his best man.”

Merlin had beamed. “That’s amazing, Arthur! This is Lance, you’re childhood friend right? The one that you grew up with?” he asked, having heard countless stories of all the adventures that Arthur had as a young boy with his friend. 

“That’s the one,” Arthur nodded, chuckling, “I can’t believe he’s getting married!” 

They had chuckled a bit and Arthur had relayed a story of his youth with Lancelot, one about them both falling into a lake that was near Arthur’s grandmother’s house, and they’d both thought they were going to die. “We got all existential and made promises that if one of us survived we’d let the other’s parents adopt us so they’d still have a son!” Arthur described, and they’d laughed together, eventually returning to the movie. 

Since then, Merlin hadn’t put much of any thought towards the wedding. He certainly hadn’t thought if he was somehow involved in Arthur’s trip back home for his best friend’s nuptials. 

“Why would you be a distraction, babe?” Arthur countered, slathering some jam and clotted cream onto a scone that was still warm from the over, “Lance’s wedding will only take up the first week in England, and then we can spend the rest of the summer just enjoying ourselves. Don’t you want to see where I grew up? I can show you all my favorite haunts, babe.”

Arching a brow playfully and a wry smile forming on his peony-pink lips Merlin asked, “Are you gonna take me to the castle where you lost your virginity?”

Letting out a small laugh, Arthur nodded eagerly, “We can even stage a reenactment on the parapets”, earning him a small kick to the shin from Merlin under the table. Making a contorted face in exaggerated pain, he continued, “Don’t you have a friend from uni over in London?”

“Elena, my best friend from my Georgetown days,” he nodded, “She’s been trying to get me to visit London for ages.”

It was true, Elena had been Merlin’s best friend when he was getting his Bachelor's degree in International Politics at Georgetown, an international student who was from London. They’d always made an effort to keep in touch regularly throughout the years since they had graduated. She would always eagerly tell him about all the places in London that she wanted to take him to, how she missed him and would make pleading sounds as she told him that she _ needed _him to come and visit her already. 

“All the more reason, Merlin. You’re going to love it, really!” Arthur said enthusiastically, “I’ll be your personal guide, show you all the best things that the U.K. has to offer, babe.”

“You’re really sure about this, Arthur?” Merlin asked again. He could sense Arthur’s eagerness about the trip, it was palpable in the air between them, and the idea of spending a summer abroad with Arthur certainly was exciting. He’d spent little less than a year teaching at the University of Leicester but back then he hadn’t cared too much for traveling about and soaking up all the experiences that he could, too focused on work. He knew it would be fascinating to visit this time with leisure in mind, especially with Arthur as his guide through it all. 

And yet, something about the idea of the trip made Merlin feel slightly apprehensive. He couldn’t help but think of the deeper implications of it all. The question was popping up quite spontaneously, but knowing Arthur, he was sure that he’d put much more thought into it than his casual visage was letting on. They’d been together for almost two years and he was inviting him to attend his best friend’s wedding in his hometown, no less.

“Of course, baby,” Arthur insisted, meeting Merlin’s eyes with an earnest and open expression on his face. “You know that I’d love for you to be there with me.” 

Did this mean what Merlin thought it did?

These thoughts buzzed in his head and his eyes pulled away from his boyfriend to instead gaze out the window of Fenway. They always sat by this same window, it was their favorite spot in the whole tea shop, sun-dappled in the shade of a nearby tree. It was a clear view out to the passerby of Greenwich Village, people with small dogs on leashes walking by as if it was a runway for the city’s most fashionable breeds. A year ago everyone couldn’t get over Italian greyhounds and their horse-like prance and slender build, but it seemed the dog of the season was the miniature American shepherd with its fluffy coat and eagerly wagging tail. _ Maybe I should get a dog, _ Merlin thought _ , A dog would be nice…, _he pondered, knowing well that she was getting lost in thought over the question. 

His gaze drifted downwards for a moment, looking at the stray leaves that lay at the bottom of his cup of amber-colored Assam tea. He wished he could pull some sort of divine answer or vision of the future from the leaves pooled there. Really, Merlin had never been one for romance, never one to hopefully await a fairytale ending. At 28 he was already being pressured by his busybody relatives to marry, something he found ludicrous, only, even more, when his uncles and aunts would relay tales of how, at his age, they’d already had children who were toddlers. They had been perpetually trying to set him up with whatever child of whatever acquaintance they vaguely knew but despite their efforts, Merlin spent the better part of his twenties single and focused on earning his degree, getting through grad school, finishing his dissertation and jump-starting his career in academia. This invitation though, it sparked something in Merlin, a long-dormant and vestigial romantic inkling that had his mind thrumming with thoughts of “_ He wants to take me to his hometown. He wants me to meet his family. _”

The long-forgotten romantic in him was awakening and he knew deep down that there was only one real answer to Arthur’s question. 

“I’ll have to check with my dean to see when I’m needed back, but...let’s do this!” he declared, smiling wide at Arthur whose face broke out into a wide grin. 

He leaned across their table and kissed Merlin, pulling away with a smile, “You’re going to love it, Merlin! You’ll meet my grandmother and Lance and all my other friends too and…”

At a nearby table, huddled discreetly behind a three-tiered stand ladened with pastries and mini Bakewell tarts, was a girl who was growing increasingly excited by the conversation she was overhearing. She suspected that it might be him but yes, she knew now that it _ had _ to be him. It _ was _Arthur Pendragon!

Even though it was years back when she was fifteen that she had last seen him, Isobel Kernall would never forget when Arthur Pendragon had strolled past their table at the Prose Lounge✽ and flashed that devastatingly disarming grin at her sister Elizabeth. 

“Is that one of the Faithley brothers?” their mother had asked, eyes widening slightly. 

“No, mum, that’s Arthur Pendragon. He’s a cousin of the Faithleys,” Elizabeth had replied, eyeing her mother and how she gazed, completely rapt, at the retreating figure of the handsome bloke who was walking towards the hip new bar that had been added to the Lounge after renovations earlier in the year. 

Their mother gasped, “Wait, you mean he’s _ Uther Pendragon’s _son? My God, when did he shoot up like that? He’s so tall! He’s so handsome!” she exclaimed, a wide smile overtaking her face. 

“He’s studying at Oxford with Lancelot,” Elizabeth stated as she sipped from her pomegranate and guava almond lassi. The Prose Lounge, one of London’s finest hidden establishments, had recently revamped its menu with a series of dishes inspired by a series of Britain’s “_ closest cultures in spirit _ ” which included India, South Africa, and Egypt. Upon hearing the news of that, Elizabeth had rolled her eyes, “just say '_the lands we horrifically colonized and plundered _’, is that so difficult?”. 

Her pomegranate lassi, topped with a sprinkle of Marcona almonds, was quite delicious though. 

“Dual major in History and Law,” Elizabeth added, already knowing what her mother was going to ask when her lips parted to speak. 

Mrs. Kernall turned to look at her eldest daughter, her eyes gleaming, “Why don’t you go talk to him?”

“Why should I? You _ always _hate all the boys I go out with,” Elizabeth scoffed, shaking her head at her mother.

“My God, _ stupid _ girl! I’m trying to protect you from fortune hunters! This one, you’d be lucky for him to even look at you, Ellie! You should go, go and _ snatch _him up!”

Isobel couldn’t believe her mother was encouraging her older sister to go and snatch up this boy. She looked curiously at Arthur who was now laughing with some friends at the bar. Even from afar he stood out in high relief. Arthur was tall and looked fit, had perfectly tousled golden hair, chiseled boyband star features, and impossibly thick eyelashes and beautifully full lips. _ He looks like that Keating cutie from Boyzone _, Isobel thought, he was the cutest and dreamiest guy she had ever seen in her life. 

“Why don’t you go over there and invite him to your fundraiser on Saturday, Lizzie?” their mother insisted, gaze turning hungry as she stared in Arthur’s direction. 

“Stop it, mummy,” Elizabeth sighed gruffly, turning to shoot her mother a sharp glower as she stood up, “_I know what I’m doing_,” she added. 

As it turned out, Elizabeth did not know what she was doing. Arthur never showed up at her fundraiser event on Saturday, much to their mother’s eternal disappointment. And to top it all off, just that following autumn Arthur had come out as gay. 

Regardless, that afternoon left such an unwavering mark on a young Isobel’s mind that even nearing ten years later and on the other side of the Atlantic, she still recognized that head of artfully tousled flaxen hair that looked like it was spun from gold. 

“Claire, let me get a picture of you with your Eton mess!” Isobel declared with a faux giggle, taking out her phone from her bag. She pointed it in the direction of her best friend but she instead trained the focus of the camera on Arthur and his date that sat by the window. She snapped the picture, making sure to actually take one of Claire as well, beaming brightly at her friend as she sent the first picture to her sister, who now lived in Atherton in California. Her phone pinged with an income text message less than a minute later.

** _Lizzie Bear:_ ** FUCK FUCK FUCK THAT’S ARTHUR PENDRAGON

** _Isobel Kernall:_ ** I know, dude, I know

** _Lizzie Bear:_ ** WHERE ARE U?

** _Isobel Kernall:_ ** Fenway @NYC

** _Lizzie Bear:_ ** Who’s the guy that he’s with?

** _Isobel Kernall:_ ** BF, I think

** _Lizzie Bear: _ **Do you see a ring?

** _Isobel Kernall:_ ** No, no ring

** _Lizzie Bear: _ **Spy for me, Issy

** _Isobel Kernall:_ ** You owe me for this!

And like that, just minutes later, before Merlin himself knew for certain what his plans for that summer would be, the details of his conversation with Arthur had already started to spread far and wide. The gossip spread around the world like a virus set loose amongst the closely guarded upper crust of the Anglophonic world. 

After Isobel Kernall (Masters in Architecture student at Parsons) texted her sister Elizabeth “Lizzie” Kernall (who recently had to “settle” for getting engaged to Welsh super angel investor Hugh Merle) in California, Lizzie called her best friend Hortensia Rackham (youngest daughter of Australian casino and hotel magnate Sir Art Rackham) in Melbourne and breathlessly filled her in on the gossip. Rosie _immediately_ texted eight of her friends in a group chat after the phone call, a group chat which included Hillary Leighton (granddaughter of eccentric art patron Ed Leighton) in Victoria, British Columbia. Hillary’s cousin Caroline Leighton (who now resides in Switzerland with her husband Mikkel, the British-Afrikaner heir to the Gamhert family luxury goods conglomerate) had studied law at Oxford with Arthur Pendragon and she simply _ had _ to send a series of rapid-fire voice messages to Gracie Triffyn (the Triffyn Media Corporation heiress) in Toronto. Grace, whose office in The Exchange Tower was just across from Leonie Young (of the Young Finance Group Youngs), simply _ had _ to interrupt her conference call to share this juicy tidbit.

Leonie, in turn, skyped her boyfriend Bran Fendigaid, who was holidaying at the Royal Mansour in Marrakech with his grandmother Mrs. Branwen Fandigaid (_no introduction needed_, of course) and her goddaughter Beverley Annwyn (Miss Rhodesia 1974, now the ex-wife to English-South African mining magnate Aaron Annwyn). Beverley made a phone call to Iseult Berould (granddaughter to famed philanthropist Norman Berould) in London, knowing well that Iseult would have a direct line to Vivian Gododdin (second cousin to Arthur) who spent every summer at her family’s vast parkland compound in the Canadian countryside. And so, this exotic strain of gossip spread rapidly through all the leviathanic networks of the English-speaking world’s jet-set, everywhere from Auckland to Boston to Adelaide, and in just some few hours most everyone in this exclusive circle knew that Arthur Pendragon was returning to England for Lancelot’s wedding and was bringing a **_boyfriend_** with him.

And, _ bloody hell, _ this was big news!

* * *

✽ One of the most secretive social clubs in London with membership practically harder to obtain than a knighthood


	2. Ygraine Pendragon, U.K.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's mother Ygraine is alive in the AU, mainly because I needed someone for the role of Eleanor Young. I think it'll be fun when I eventually get to writing scenes between her and Merlin!
> 
> Do I know the first thing about the real-world English 1 %? No.  
Am I still going to write this? Yes.  
I hope you like reading this!

** _PART ONE_ **

** _“If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to”_ **

** _-Dorothy Parker_ **

* * *

_ Chapter 2 _

_ Ygraine Arnive-Pendragon _

_ "The Pink Palace", Herefordshire _

Everyone knew that the Honorable Carleon Brennenal, Viscount Ryfellar, reinstated his family’s fortune the dirty way after taking down London Igely Bank in the early eighties. But in the three decades and a half since then, the efforts of his wife, Annis Brennenal, the Viscountess Ryfellar, on behalf of the right charities had burnished once more the Brennenal name into one of respectability. For example, every Wednesday she would host a Bible study breakfast for her closest friends at her home, and Ygraine was sure to attend.

Annis' bedroom wasn't actually located in the sprawling and gargantuan 18th-century Palladian style country house that was the family’s residence, known as Hadrien Hall, made of pink Derbyshire alabaster and nicknamed The Pink Palace. Instead, on the advice of the family's security team, her bedroom was hidden away in the large pavilion of pink stone that stood away from the home, overlooking the backyard gardens of trimmed topiaries and gorgeous flower beds.

To get there, you had to either follow the cobblestone footpath that wound around aromatic bushes cut into spirals and exotic animals, or take the shortcut through the service wing. Ygraine always preferred to take the quicker route, since she avoided the sun to maintain her porcelain Lladró figurine complexion and as Annis' oldest friend she felt herself exempt from the formalities of being announced at the front door, being greeted by the butler and having to listen to all the fawning formalities from the service staff who would line up to welcome her to Hadrien Hall.

Besides, Ygraine always loved going through the service block, flanking the country home on the left side and connected through a closed colonnade in pink alabaster and white travertine stone. 

Greeting the old women who had ascended to the top domestic positions, loyal to Hadrien Hall since the 50s and 60s when they'd arrived as teenagers, who were shouting at orders at the younger maids. The younger women fresh-faced and looking like they were plucked from some hillside village town with their brown hair and open expressions, flushed at all the activity going on around them.

The twenty-something-year-old girls would always fawn over how  _ young  _ Mrs. Pendragon looked at fifty-five, with her shoulder-length and fashionable unstyled (but totally styled) sheeny platinum blonde hair and her unwrinkled face. Of course, they'd begin a furious debate about what newfangled and expensive procedure she must've endured the moment that she was out of earshot.

By the time she reached Annis' bedroom, the bible study regulars-Laudine Dunlauk, Enide Tennyson and Daione Tirmur-were already there, assembled and waiting. Here, sheltered from the countryside heat, the decades-old friends would sprawl languidly about the room and analyze the Bible verses in their study guides.

The place of honor, Annis' red Amboyna wooden bed ✽ was reserved for Ygraine. For, even though it was Annis' home and she was the one who was married to a billionaire financier with a noble title, Annis deferred to her. This was the way that things always were, the way they’d always be, and they  _ all  _ kowtowed to Ygraine because, even among the room of exceedingly well-married women of pedigree, it was she who trumped them all by becoming Mrs. Uther Pendragon.

Today's breakfast began with a course of slices of bread and small baked goods set up on antique silver two-tiered platters, with an array of jams and creams of various flavors. Laudine Dunlauk (married to mining magnate Ewan Gorre, but born a Dunlauk, of the Scottish Dunlauks), was having a difficult time trying to smear some clotted cream on a golden brown scone while trying to find a verse in her New Revised Standard Version of the Holy Book. 

With her fire-red hair a frizzy halo around her head and thick-rimmed white reading glasses perched on her (relatively new) nose, she looked like a mildly eccentric fashion editor. At sixty-two she was the oldest of the ladies, and even though everyone was on the New American Standard she insisted on reading her version, "I went to a convent school in Dundee, it's  _ always  _ going to be the King James for me, girls". Crumbs fell onto the tissue-thin paper, but she managed to keep the good book open while smearing some clotted cream on her fresh-out-of-the-oven and still-warm scone.

Meanwhile, Daione was busy flipping through  _ her  _ Bible, the latest edition of Tattle. 

Every month she couldn't wait to see how many pictures of her daughter Sofia-the famed Tirmur Enterprises heiress-would be included in the magazine's "Soirées" section. Daione herself was a frequent fixture in the glossy pages of the society section, what with her always done-up makeup styles, tropical fruit sized jewels, a penchant for elaborate couture looks and her Rapunzel-like head of champagne blonde hair, all-natural of course ✽, that grazed along her hip bones.

"My God! Annis, Annis, look!,” Daione grinned excitedly, cheering, "Tattle devoted  _ two full pages  _ to your Christian Hearts Benefit fashion show!"

"Really? I didn't think it'd come out so soon,” Annis remarked demurely. 

Unlike Daione, she was always rather embarrassed to find herself in the magazine pages, even though editors always fawned over her "classic Joshua Reynolds portrait-like beauty". She just felt obligated to, as a born-again Methodist (she was raised Catholic), attend a certain number of social events a week. And her husband always reminded her that, "playing the role of Diana is good for business".

Daione scanned the sheeny pages and let out a snicker, prompting the women to look in her direction. "Elaine Garlot has  _ really  _ put on weight since that Caribbean cruise she went on last month. Must be those all-you-can-eat buffets, don't you think? They make you feel like you have to eat up to get your money's worth".

"I don't think she cares too much about her weight," offered Enide from her position on one of the decorous chaise lounges, "I heard that when her father passed last November she and her three sisters each got  _ 700  _ million".

"I thought Lenny would have at  _ least  _ a billion,” scoffed Daione disparagingly, shaking her head, her complex braided updo of her fairytale-long hair swaying slightly as she moved. "Hey, Ygraine? How come there aren't any pretty photos of your niece Morgana? I could've sworn I saw all the photographer's swarming around her that day!"

"They were wasting their time. Morgana's pictures are never published  _ anywhere _ : her mother made a deal with all the magazine editors and publishers back when she was a teenager,” replied Ygraine, brushing away a stray lock of flaxen hair as she took a seat on the bed.

Daione squawked in indignation, "And why would she do that?"

"Don't you know my husband's family by now?," Ygraine answered, shaking her head, "They'd rather be  _ dead  _ than appear in print".

"Are they too grand to be seen mingling with the rest of us?,” chided Daione, feeling bristled.

"Come now, Daione,” Laudine eased, "There's a difference between being grand and private", knowing well that families like the Pendragons and the Faithleys guarded their privacy to the point of obsession.

"Grand or not, your niece Morgana is wonderful", Annis chimed in, glad to shift the topic of the conversation, "I know I'm not supposed to say, and this might be very un-Christian of me, but Morgana wrote the  _ biggest  _ check at the fundraiser. She wanted to be anonymous, but it was thanks to her that this year's gala was such a success, a record-breaker!"

Ygraine nodded. That sounded really Morgana-like.

"What do we have today?", she asked, eyes gleaming with interest when she saw a young and pretty maid enter the room, carrying in her arms an ornately carved chestnut-wooden trunk, which she set beside Ygraine on the bed.

Annis shrugged lightly, in that way that showed she was going to reveal a treasure trove of epic new buys but was being discreet about it. "Just wanted to show you girls some of the things that I bought when the Viscount and I were at the Dominican Republic,” she smiled.

The women nodded. Annis' springtime sabbatical to the Caribbean, to the Ryfellar property in Cabarete Bay, was one they'd been anxious to hear about. They knew that their friend had stayed at the famed colossal and sprawling ultimate bungalow home in American Craftsman style, commissioned by the Viscount's grandfather in the 20s to Californian architectural duo Greene & Greene✽, but Annis had skirted around the topic of any acquisitions during her time away. She had masterfully deflected all of their probing questions and attempts to get her to spill about what she might’ve bought while on her vacation, much to the women’s chagrin. 

Ygraine was quick to flip open the lid of the chest and methodically take out the stacked and velvet-lined trays. This was probably her favorite part of Wednesday morning Bible brunch (a close second was that divine strawberry cheesecake that Annis mentioned her cooks were preparing as dessert for that morning,  _ yessssss _ !): getting to see Annis' new acquisitions.

The platinum blonde headed woman's eyes widened at the sight of a gorgeous cross necklace, with peculiar and transparent honey-hued stones along the shape. "What a beautiful cross-I never knew they did this kind of setting work in the Dominican Republic! My God, I’ll have to take a trip myself!"

"No, no, the cross is Harry Winston,” Annis corrected, adding, "But the stones are Dominican amber.”

Ygraine nodded, and then her eyes zeroed in one some other pieces, multiple rings and bracelets, and two necklaces, all set with a magnificently bright blue colored stone. She grazed her fingertips along a golden band with a pear-cut stone, and a pair of cabochon-cut earrings with diamonds and gold.

"And this? Is this Larimar?✽,” Ygraine asked with awe, looking up at Annis, who nodded in response.

Enide got up from her plate of scones all smeared with some richly flavored boysenberry jam and headed in a straight beeline for the bed, immediately holding up one of the stones to the light. 

"You ought to be careful with your Larimar, girls. When I told Eric that you'd gone to the Dominican Republic he told me about this horrific scandal with some mines near Barahona that were sending their stones to Switzerland so they could be  _ synthetically  _ treated to boost their blue color," the dark-haired woman informed her friends. As the wife of Eric Tennyson, of the mining Tennysons, she could speak on the topic of jewels with authority.

"My God!," Ygraine cried out, "And Larimar from Quinceañera is so  _ gorgeous _ ! Why would anyone think of working on it in a lab? How disgraceful".

"Not Quinceañera, Yggie", interjected Laudine, correcting her, using that age-old nickname, "Quisqueya, you’re thinking of  _ Quisqueya _ ".

"My God! You're just like Arthur, always  _ correcting  _ me!," Ygraine said, shaking her head lightly.

Laudine shrugged. "Speaking of Arthur, when does he arrive from New York? Isn't he going to be the best man at Lancelot's wedding?," she asked, looking up from her Bible to glance at Ygraine.

"He is, but you know my son-I'm always the last one to know anything!" complained Ygraine, her hands fiddling with an amber piece, the small slab of resin at the center of a festoon style necklace.

"Isn't he staying with you?," asked Enide.

"Of course! He always stays with us before heading to the  _ Antique's  _ house", Ygraine explained, using the nickname she had for her mother-in-law.

"Well,” Laudine started, her voice lowering, "What do you think the Antique is going to say about his guest?"

"What?,” Ygraine frowned, arching a thin brow in confusion, "What  _ guest _ ? What are you talking about, Laudine?"

"You know...the one....he's bringing....to the wedding,” Laudine replied slowly, her eyes darting around the room mischievously to the other ladies, who all knew what she was referring to and whose attentions were now piqued by Ygraine’s seemingly cluelessness regarding the matter.

"What are you  _ talking  _ about? Who's he bringing?,” Ygraine asked, frowning in confusion.

"My God!", Daione cried out, flicking a stray strand of blonde away from her face, exasperated at how Ygraine really didn't know a thing, " _ His latest boyfriend _ !"

The ice-blonde gasped, "No such thing! He doesn't have any sort of new boyfriend!"

"And why is it so hard for you to believe that your son has a boyfriend?,” Enide asked, arching an accusatory brow at her friend. She had always found Arthur to be the  _ most  _ dashing young man of his generation, and with all that Pendragon money it was really such a shame her good-for-nothing daughter Devon never managed to attract him.

When he had so  _ brazenly  _ come out as gay during his second year at Cambridge, she had been amiss to what to do now. Devon wasn't a viable option anymore, but Enide had a son too, Geraint, who she thought was quite the catch as well: handsome with russet-colored hair, was a good 6'2 and was most likely going to inherit the grand majority of the Tennyson fortune. Ever since her husband's sister Verity ran off with some Swedish quasi-millionaire in a union that wasn't blessed by Enide’s in-laws, the two sons she had were disinherited. Her  _ crone  _ of a mother-in-law had gone so far as to even  _ refuse  _ to meet her eldest grandchildren. Eric's other brother was the youngest of the three, which automatically put him at a lower position when Enide's father-in-law would croak ( _ soon _ , Enide hoped) and his estate would be dished out.

So, when Enid heard that Arthur would be returning to Britain for the DuLac wedding, she'd informed her son of the plan to have him seduce and enamor Arthur away from whatever boy-toy he was bringing along as his guest. Geraint, the  _ blasted foolish idiot  _ that he was, had refused to go along with the plan.

"I'm not  _ gay _ , mother!” he had snapped at her, looking at his mother in a mix of irritation, bewilderment, and shock at the mere idea as if she’d suggested something unreasonable of him.

He'd been staring absentmindedly at his mother's pacing figure, half-listening to what she said as she made a continuous circle in the ornately decorated living room of the family's Victorian Gothic villa on Crick Road. Geraint hadn't been much engrossed in what she had said was "the perfect plan", thinking more on why he'd even canceled his closed-door meeting with Marek Reichmann where he was going to be shown the newest sports car codenamed  _ Nebula  _ before the Aston Martin private showcase at the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix ✽.

"For a name like  _ Pendragon  _ and a  _ fortune  _ like the one they have, I _ don't care if you have to fake liking getting  _ ** _fucked _ ** _ by Arthur _ , you stupid child!” she had screamed in response, arms flapping around wildly like a bird as she screeched.

"Surely you've heard of who he's bringing, right? The American?,” Laudine announced in a stage whisper as she closed her Bible, relishing in how they were the ones to deliver the news to a shocked Ygraine.

"An  _ American _ ? Never, never,” Ygraine protested, panicking and shaking her head in earnest protest, "Artie would  _ never _ , you're gossip is  _ garbage _ , Laudine!"

"My gossip is never garbage!" cried Laudine.

Daione, who had set down her magazine, let out a loud cackle, "My goodness! Let's pray that it isn't another one of those  _ American avalanches _ !"

Horrified, Ygraine dared to ask, "What do y-you mean?"

"You know, the American avalanches! They come out of nowhere, men fall in love and before they even know it, they're gone! But not without having taken every last cent in their path as they go!,” Daione explained, her voice excited and blue eyes gleaming, "So many men have fallen to American avalanches, you know?"

Her face blanched. "Like who?", Ygraine questioned.

"Mrs. Ashton-Carlby's middle son, Joseph, for example. His wife cleaned him through and ran off with a  _ bunch  _ of the ages-old Carlby heirlooms!,” Daione recounted, picking up one of Enid’s forgotten scones and happily munching it down.

Enid, who's attention had been pulled from assessing the treasure trove of jewelry before her, nodded along. "And don't you remember Anne Susan Chartery's husband who ran off with that Los Angeles internet model who posts pictures online with expensive bottled water?"

All the women visibly trembled at that last part. ✽

It was at that very moment that Annis' husband entered the room. "Hello, hello, ladies,” he greeted with a wide smile, "What's God been saying today?,” he joked, looking every bit the caricature of a well-off middle-aged businessman in his Edes & Ravenscroft mint colored shirt and his slate grey Milan-made A. Caraceni custom suit, swirling some scotch in a glass.

"Hello, Viscount,” the ladies all said in unison, hurriedly arranging themselves into more decorous positions on the furniture.

Ygraine was the first of the ladies to speak, crying out and shaking her head, "Viscount, the girls are trying to give me an aneurysm! Laudine is saying that Arthur is going to be bringing some American with him to Lancelot and Mithian's wedding!"

Chuckling, the man replied, "Relax, Yggie, Americans are lovely people. And maybe whoever he's found will be better than all of the  _ inbred spawn _ that you always want to matchmake him up with!"

The ladies stayed silent at that last part.

"Anyways,” the Viscount continued, lowering his voice and taking a few steps closer, "If I were you ladies, I'd spend less time worrying about who Arthur is bringing for the Grail-du Lac wedding and worry about  _ Strassberg Development  _ instead".

"What's going on with Strassberg?,” asked Daione, her face paling a bit. The Viscount always had the best insider information regarding stocks. 

"Strassberg is  _ over _ , ladies. It's going to  _ collapse _ !” he announced with a jubilant smile, taking a slow sip from his glass of scotch as he watched as his wife's friends started to get jittery.

"B-but Strassberg is _ a blue-chip _ ! And they're doing all those new construction projects in Wales!,” argued Enide, who was slowly growing worried.

"According to my source at Downing Street, the government is pulling out of that big development project outside Cardiff,” the Viscount announced, nodding to himself proudly, "I just unloaded my shares and I'm shorting a hunted thousand shares every hour until the market closes".

And with that the Viscount walked calmly to the state-of-the-art touchpad beside Annis' bed, pressing a button. He stood quietly, watching as the large glass wall that faced the wisteria-covered pergola, that wound towards the Viscount's private pavilion, began to part like crystalline sliding doors with a nearly inaudible humming sound. With a final nod towards the women and beaming at their shocked faces, the Viscount began lumbering along the pathway, chuckling to himself as he went.

For a few short seconds, everyone in the room was ramrod still. One could practically hear how their thoughts whizzed into overdrive, and then Laudine jumped up from her position at the table rather frantically, sending her cup of Nicaraguan Segovia coffee flying across the table. "Quick, quick, where's my bag? I need to call my broker right now,  _ where is it _ ?” she screamed.

Ygraine and Enide frantically searched for their phones as well. Daione, who had her stockbroker on speed dial was already screaming into her phone, "Yes! Dump it, dump all of it right now! Strassberg is a  _ goner _ , I just heard it from the fucking horse's fucking mouth!"

Enide had toppled her coffee as well, but was cupping her phone close to her mouth as she said, her voice steely, "I don't bloody care, Lyle, just start shorting it! Right now!"

Laudine let out a wailing sound, shaking her head, "I'm losing  _ millions  _ by the fucking minute! Where is my bloody broker? Don't tell that  _ idiot  _ is still at lunch!"

Reaching calmly over to the touch-screen pad beside her bed, Annis spoke, "Hello girls, I need you to come in and clean up a spill, thank you.” 

And then she closed her eyes, brushing gently at her auburn hair for a moment before starting to pray aloud, arms raised up. "Lord Jesus, our gracious Savior, and protector, blessed be your name. Today we come to you with humility and asking for forgiveness for our sins, as we've all sinned against you, my dear Lord."

" _ Fucking motherfucker _ !", shrieked Daione at her broker who was still questioning why she wanted to dump all her shares in the blue-chip development and construction company, her face contorted viciously.

"Thank you Lord Jesus for all of your blessings,” Annie went on, "and thank you for all your divine love. Thank you Lord Jesus for our fellowship and allowing us to come together, thank you for the nourishment of the meal we have enjoyed this morning and I want to thank you particularly for the cheesecake that Maisie is preparing for dessert. Thank you for the power of your holy word, Lord Jesus.”

“Please watch over our dear Sister Ygraine, Sister Laudine, Sister Daione, and Sister Enide as they try to sell their shares in Strassberg…,” opening her eyes for a moment she saw that Ygraine was also praying with her.  _ Ygraine is such a good Christian woman _ , Annie mused for a moment, a content smile blooming on her peony colored lips, resuming her prayer with more gusto than before.

What Annis didn't know was that behind that serene look on her face and her closed eyelids, Ygraine was praying for something else entirely.

Not an  _ American _ , please, let it not be true!

* * *

✽Amboyna wood isn't a species per se, but the rare and extremely costly rose-scented burl of the rosewood tree, with Annis' bed being made by furniture designer Thomas Sheraton from wood imported straight from Ambon Island in the 18th century

✽While she’s a natural blonde, Daione's particular lustrous shade of creamy yellow with platinum, golden and butterscotch accents is thanks to her colorist Alexandra at the Jo Hansford salon on Mayfair

✽Their only known project outside of the U.S., a stunningly gorgeous and chic home built completely from Dominican guayacan wood, the house today also includes a bird conservatory and a greenhouse in which there's a treasure trove of Bayahibe roses, kept in perfect conditions

✽Larimar, an exceedingly rare blue variant of the mineral pectolite, is found only in the Dominican Republic and the more intense the blue color and the contrast in the stone, the higher and rarer is the quality.

✽The car that Geraint was going to view was the now-revealed Aston Martin Valkyrie, of which only 150 cars will be made and crafted of pure carbon fiber. With a top speed in excess of 200 mph, park one in your garage for near $3.2 million

✽Bottled water, hotel rooms, pricey airfare, phone bills, snacks and undergarments, all things that women of Ygraine's set and generation can't  _ stomach  _ to spend much money on. Catch them shell out millions for antique furniture though. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the fic! I'd greatly appreciate any kudos, comments or feedback if you'd like to leave some!
> 
> I've taken up the arduous and unneeded task of making it so that every character's name can somehow be traced back to either a character featured in the show or in any sort of Arthurian-related work: paintings, poems, songs, literature, haha, wherever I can get them!
> 
> (( I'm an American with no real knowledge of British customs and what words they use differently than us other than my sort-of research so if anything is incorrect, go ahead and point it out! ))


	3. Morgana, Paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A look into Morgana, this AU's equivalent of Astrid Leong.  
Regarding her surname, I sort of changed Le Fay to Faithley, mostly because it sounds similar to the original and also just seems more realistic? Who knows, but that's what I went with!
> 
> Do I know the first thing about the real-world English 1 %? No.  
Am I still going to write this? Yes.  
I hope you like reading this!

** _PART ONE_ **

** _“If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to”_ **

** _-Dorothy Parker_ **

* * *

_ Chapter 3 _

_ Morgana Faithley _

_ Paris, France _

Every 1st of May, the Pierre-Laeres, one of France’s great banking dynasties, would host _ Le Bal du Muguet _ , a stunningly organized ball that was the highlight of Paris’ spring social season. This year, Morgana entered the arched passageway that led into the Pierre-Laeres’ _ hotel particulier _ on the eastern tip of the Île Saint-Louis, being handed a delicate sprig of white flowers by a stately looking footman in smart black and gold livery. 

“It’s after Charles IX. He would present lilies of the valley to all the ladies at le Château de Fontainebleau every May Day,” a woman dressed in all the fineries murmured to her as they passed through the arch and emerged into the courtyard where dozens upon dozens of eighteenth-century style hot air balloons floated amongst the topiaries cut in the form of sparrows, the family’s beloved animal that was featured on their sigil. 

Morgana barely even had time to take in the delightfully beautiful sight when the Vicomtesse Anne Laudine de Pierre-Laere pounced on her. “I’m so glad you could make it, Morgana!” she greeted effusively, greeting her long-time friend with quadruple cheek kisses. 

Morgana, beaming brightly, hugged the other woman, “I wouldn’t miss it, Laudie.”

Pulling away, the Vicomtesse praised, “My goodness, is that _ linen _ ?” her eyes intent on the other woman’s dress, “Only _ you _could get away with wearing a simple linen dress to a ball, Morgana!”

The blond took Morgana’s arm in hers, the two walking together as she appreciated the delicate Grecian pleats of the long burgundy colored gown that her friend wore. The sumptuously artful folds, the rich color, the crossed-back…

“Wait a minute...is this _ an original Grès _✽?” Laudamie gasped, realizing that she had seen a similar piece on exhibit at the Palais Galliera. 

Slightly embarrassed to have been discovered, her cheeks coloring pink, Morgana nodded, “From her early period, yes.”

“How on earth dd you get your hands on an early Grès?” the blond asked, awe bathing her voice. Morgana had always been able to find absolute gems, be it an early Fortuny or a necklace once owned by a Russian Czarina, Laudamie felt that she should've been accustomed to her friend's affinity for only the very best of haute couture and joaillerie. She quickly recovered herself though, murmuring in a quieter voice, “I hope you don’t mind but my mother-in-law put you beside Garel, I’m sorry. He’s being such an _ annoyance _ , really Morgana, he _still_ thinks I’m angry about his affair with that opera singer last year. He won’t stop trying to _appease_ me and insists we go to marriage counseling, can you believe the man? He keeps crying and apologizing and _gets on his knees_, honestly, it’s tragic," she shook her head, "You’re the only person I trust to sit next to him. He's too enchanted by you to mope about our marriage to you. At least you’re going to have Gasaprd ✽ on your right.”

Chuckling, Morgana nodded, “You know I always enjoy Garel’s company. And his behavior is to be expected, I _told_ you that he was obsessed with you since the day you met," Morgana pointed out, knowing well that Garel was dangerously in love with her friend ✽, "He’d do _anything_ if it meant you were happy.”

A mischievous smirk appeared on the blonde’s lips. “I _have_ been thinking of renovating our compound in the Alps...”

“You’ve _always_ known how to take advantage of a situation," Morgana chuckled, adding, “And it’ll be a treat to sit next to Gaspard-I saw his new movie last week.”

“I thought it was such a _bore_, but he’s so dreamy, isn’t he? Anyway, are you sure you have to leave tomorrow?” the hostess asked with a pout. They hadn’t gotten to spend as much time together on Morgana’s visit to the city as they would’ve liked, mainly because Laudine’s in-laws had roped her into all the preparations for the ball.

Morgana gave her friend an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, but I’ve been away from home for almost a month. My son is going to forget who I am!” she joked.

“You should bring Ewain next time you come to Paris. My boys love playing with him,” the Vicomtesse beamed as they were ushered along into the grand foyer where her mother-in-law, the Comtesse Babianne dePierre-Laere, presided over the receiving line.

“Morgana! Quelle surprise!” the woman gasped when she saw the young woman who walked with her daughter-in-law.

“I wasn’t sure if I would be able to attend, but you know I’d never miss this event, Comtesse,” the brunette smiled bashfully. 

“Comtesse? No need for formalities, Morgana! I'm always_ Tante Babi _ to you, _mon tendre!_” the woman proclaimed with a wide smile.

Morgana nodded and she noticed the woman beside her long-time family friend. A stiff-looking grand dame who didn’t return the small smile that Morgana sent, instead she narrowed her eyes slightly, taking her in like she was appraising her. 

“Morgana Faithley, let me present my dear friend, Baronne Marie-Éléonore de la Troye.”

The older woman simply nodded curtly before she turned her gaze away and resumed a quiet conversation with her Tante Babi. Ignoring her completely, as if Morgana wasn’t worth another second of her vision. 

Looking at Morgana’s retreating figure out of the corner of her eye, Marie-Éléonore turned to her friend, “Babianne, did you notice the necklace the girl was wearing? I saw it at Monsieur Rosenthal’s last week. It’s unbelievable what these girls can get their hands on!”

The Comtesse nodded, “Morgana has an eye for the very best.”

“Tell me, Babianne, to whom does she belong to?”

The flaxen-haired woman with greying hairs chuckled, “No, no Éléonore, Morgana isn’t one of _ those _girls. We’ve known her family for years now.”

“Oh,” Marie-Éléonore frowned, astonished, “Who is her family?”

“The Faithleys are an English family from Australia, Éléonore.”

The Baronne nodded slowly, letting out a small chortle. “That must be why I’ve never heard their name. These new families, they just keep popping up, right? They make a lot of flashy money quickly and suddenly all the doors open for them!”

“No, no, Éléonore, you don’t quite understand. Her family has been wealthy for generations. Her father is one of the biggest clients this family has ever had.”

Joining his wife in the receiving line, Comte Chretien de Pierre-Laere remarked humorously, “Giving away family secrets again, my love?”

“Not at all. Just enlightening Marie-Leonore about the Faithleys,” Babianne explained, adjusting her husband’s tie. _ The big baby could run a multibillion-dollar financial holdings company but couldn’t properly put on a tie _, she thought.

“Ah, the Faithleys,” a small smile bloomed on Chretien’s lips, “Why the topic? Don’t tell me that the ravishing Morgana was able to come last-minute?”

“You just missed her, my love. But don’t worry, you’ll have all night to ogle at her from across the dinner table. She’ll be seated next to Garel,” she informed her husband with a light chuckle, and turning to Marie-Éléonore she explained, “It’s been years and my husband and son are both still enchanted and obsessed with Morgana.”

“A girl like Morgana exists to feed obsession, my love,” Chretien declared, earning a smack to the arm from his wife who gave him a playful faux outraged look. 

“Chretien, darling, explain to me these Faithley people? How is it that I’ve never heard of them?” Marie-Éléonore asked, intrigued, sure, but mostly peeved that her encyclopedic knowledge on who everyone was in the leviathanic network of Europe’s uppermost echelons had holes poked in it. Who were these Faithley people?

Before he could start (if anyone was prone to revealing secrets about both the family and the family’s clients, _it was Chretien_), Babianne cut in. “Let me just tell you this: we visited Morgana’s family in England one time a few years ago. It’s the only time that the Faithleys have invited us to stay with them in all the years we’ve known them. They’ve been wealthy for centuries, for hundreds of years. You simply can’t imagine how _ staggeringly _ wealthy these people are, Éléonore. The houses, the servants, the way that they live. It makes the _ Arnaults _ look like peasants. Makes the _ Rothschilds _look like corner store owners.”

“What’s more, I’ve been told that Morgana is an heiress on both sides-her mother’s side has even more enormous fortune!” Chretien nodded, always having lamented that Gordon’s wife didn’t bring her family’s wealth management to him. 

“Oh, really?” Marie-Leonore gasped in astonishment. She stared at the girl who was across the room, renewed interest in her eyes. This left the unanswered additional question of _ who the fuck was the mother’s family? _

Clearing her throat, the Baronne nodded, “Well, she’s rather soignee, I’ll admit.”

“She’s terribly chic-I think she’s one of the few girls of her generation who actually gets it right,” the Comtesse nodded, “Laudamie tells me that Morgana has a couture collection that rivals both those of the Sheikha of Qatar and Mouna Ayoub. She never goes to the shows, she hates being photographed and appearing in the media but she goes straight to the ateliers and snaps up dozens of dresses every season as if they were profiteroles. They all have mannequins in her size ready in case she can’t make it in person to the ateliers.”

Chretien smirked and added, “And all of this Marie-Éléonore, without anyone even knowing that her family _ exists _”. 

Some fifteen minutes later, Morgana stood in the salon, admiring a dream-like portrait of a beautiful woman that hung above the mantelpiece when someone behind her spoke, “That’s Chretien’s mother, you know.”

Turning to see who had spoken, she saw it was the Baronne. The woman was seemingly making her best attempt at a smile on her tightly pulled face. 

“She was a beautiful woman,” Morgana replied with a small nod. 

“Cherie, I must say that I’ve been admiring your necklace since I saw you. I fell in love with it when I visited Monsieur Joel a few weeks ago but he told me it was already spoken for”, the Baronne beamed, this time a genuine one, “But I see now, you were clearly destined to wear it.”

“Thank you,” Morgana replied, blushing slightly at the compliment and feeling rather amused at the woman’s sudden turn in attitude, “But your earrings are the most magnificent things.”

“Babianne tells me you are from _Australie_?” Marie-Éléonore asked and when Morgana nodded, she continued, “A lovely country, so I’ve heard. My beloved granddaughter is taking a trip to Australia in the summer. She loves beaches and nature. Maybe you would be so kind so as to give her some advice?”

“Of course,” Morgana said politely albeit thinking, _ My Lord, it took this woman all but five minutes to go from snobby to suck-up! _It was...well, it was honestly disappointing.

Paris had always been her escape and she’d always yearned to be invisible in the City of Lights. To be just another one of the well-dressed tourist girls visiting the city for the first time and taking everything in with a wondrous expression. It was the luxury of anonymity that made her love the French city. 

But living in Paris some years back had changed all of that. Her parents, concerned that their only daughter was living without any sort of chaperone by herself in a foreign city, had alerted their friends in Paris, like their trusted bankers the Pierre-Laeres. Word had gotten out, spread widely throughout the city, and suddenly she wasn’t just another jeune fille renting a flat in the Faubourg. She was suddenly emblazoned with the title of _ Gordon Faithley’s daughter _ and _ Constance Gododdin’s granddaughter _ . It was frustrating and she had been utterly enraged when her mother had informed her that they’d spoken with their friends in Paris and let them know where she was living, “_just so they can check in with you, my dear_.” But, of course, she should’ve been used to it, to people talking about her as soon as she left the room. It had practically been happening since the very flowery May evening when she was born.

To understand why though, one had to first consider the very most obvious thing-her _astonishing_ beauty. Morgana wasn’t attractive in the "classic English beauty" way like her mother, no, many would say that she wasn’t attractive in the typical sense of the word. One could say that Morgana’s eyes were set slightly too far apart and her forehead-so similar to the men on her father’s side-was too big for a girl. Her smile was a bit too toothy maybe and some of her naysayers would describe her physique as rather _ flat _and lacking. Yer somehow, with her delicate button nose, bee-stung naturally peony pink lips and her long obsidian hair that had a slight wave to its form, it all came together to form a particularly entrancing vision. 

Morgana was always that girl who modeling scouts stopped in the streets, even if over the years her mother would never fail to make quick work of dispatching them. 

“Hurry along, Morgana,” her mother had chided one day while they walked through Paris’ picturesque streets. It was the summer right after Morgana’s 17th birthday and she had been allowed to accompany her mother on her yearly trip to Paris. 

They were currently en route to the Kraemer Gallery ✽. Vivienne had been planning on running down to the 17th arrondissement to pick up some pains au chocolat when she received a phone call. It was her source at the antique furniture dealer and they had hurriedly whispered that they’d just received a Jean-Pierre Latz long-case clock from the reign of Louis XV. 

“Nearly identical to the one that was made for Frédéric le Grand at the Nouveau Palais,” the voice on the other line had murmured to Morgana’s mother in the morning, “Oh no! I have to leave you, madame!”, before hanging up abruptly. 

Vivienne would be damned if anyone else got their hands on the clock, and so she had promptly woken up Morgana, shrieked until her daughter was dressed and her hair was brushed, and then they began their trek to the antique dealer by the Parc Monceau. Morgana, still not the seemingly-native-Parisian she would one day become, was staring at all the architectural beauties that they were walking by. She was brought back to reality by her mother’s hand wrapping itself around her forearm, nails slightly digging into her skin.

“Mum, that _ hurts _!” Morgana had hissed, pulling her arm away from her mother.

“Hurry along then! I’m not going to be late to Kraemer and risk _ someone else _ getting _ my _clock just because you can’t be bothered to run quickly!” Vivienne had replied curtly. 

So, they continued walking briskly through the streets, until a woman suddenly appeared in their path. 

Platinum blond hair cut in a fashionably shaggy haircut and thin eyeglasses that rested precariously near the bottom of her nose, this woman was tall and willowy and, more importantly to Vivienne, _ blocking their way _. 

The woman said something in French to her mother. It was a bit too quick for Morgana’s schoolgirl-level French to quite understand but she did hear the woman say “beautiful”. Morgana tensed slightly though when she saw the shocked expression on her mother’s face.

What was this French lady saying to her mum? Vivienne’s eyes were widening and her stance was pulling away as if recoiling. She moved between the woman and Morgana, prompting the teenaged girl to frown a bit. Her mother was animatedly shaking her head now and was responding in equally rapid-fire French. 

The woman turned her attention to Morgana, grey eyes bright. “_ Miss, I was joost zaying to ‘our maman zat I work for an agency ‘ere in Paris, a modeling agency and- _”

“_ Excusez-moi, nous sommes pressés! _” Vivienne hissed, interrupting the woman and glaring daggers at her as she tugged Morgana along. 

Later in the day, when Morgana brought it up her mother sighed. 

“That awful woman was a modeling scout. She said her agency worked with ‘_ ze bezt deezigners _’ and that she thought you could have a great career,” Vivienne scoffed, shaking her head. 

Morgana swallowed. She’d never thought of modeling as a profession and it seemed her mother didn’t much like the idea either. But, her mother was in a good mood as they’d gotten the clock ✽, so she decided to risk it.

“What would be so bad with being a model, mum?” she dared to ask.

Vivienne met her daughter’s gaze in an intense stare. “You’re not going to be modeling for _ anyone _ ,” she frowned, “and certainly not for _ money _. Those things are beneath you.”

And then there was the other, probably more essential, detail about Morgana. She was born into the uppermost echelon of the world’s wealth-a secretive and rarefied circle of families who possessed immeasurably vast fortunes. For starters, her father, Gordon, was of the Faithley family, nothing more needed be said. Adding more oomph, her mother was the eldest daughter of Aurelian Pendragon and the even more imperial Constance Gododdin. Morgana’s aunt Caroline had married into the Royal House of Windsor. Another aunt was wed to renowned Canadian neurologist Lot Camlann.

If one wanted, they could spend hours upon hours that would turn into days diagramming all the amazing dynastic links in Morgana’s family tree. From whatever angle you looked at it her lineage was nothing if not extraordinary interesting. 

And as she took her place at the candlelit banquet table in the long gallery of the Pierre-Laere’s long gallery, surrounded by the uppermost tiers of France’s old-guard families and cultural scions, the walls around her adorned with rose-period Picassos and table laden with Sèvres in pristine condition from the 1700s, she couldn’t have suspected just how extraordinary and interesting everything was truly going to become. 

* * *

✽ As in Madame Grès, the respected French couturier famed for her minimalistic draping technique, eye for the female figure and painstaking attention to detail: her famous “Greek goddess” gowns could take anywhere up to reported 300 hours to complete.

✽ As in Gaspard Ulliel, a.k.a the man of my dreams

✽ Called "_Laudamie's petit chien_" jokingly in their circle of friends when he wasn't around, to this date there isn't a single thing that Laudamie has asked him to do that he hasn't done without a moment's doubt. It's slightly (read: very) alarming. 

✽ Considered to be the world’s largest privately-owned museum-quality collection of 18th-century French furniture and objets d’art and the oldest in Paris, nicknamed “_the billionaire’s IKEA _”, some have joked that for a piece to be sold there it must have been owned by at least 1 royal

✽For €4.2 million, purchased less than two minutes after it was shown to Vivienne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the fic! I'd greatly appreciate any kudos, comments or feedback if you'd like to leave some!
> 
> If anyone cares, this is a link to Morgana's dress: https://tinyurl.com/vvx4fx5
> 
> I've taken up the arduous and unneeded task of making it so that every character's name can somehow be traced back to either a character featured in the show or in any sort of Arthurian-related work: paintings, poems, songs, literature, haha, wherever I can get them!
> 
> (( I'm an American with no real knowledge of British customs and what words they use differently than us other than my sort-of research so if anything is incorrect, go ahead and point it out! ))


	4. Merlin, New York

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A look into Merlin and his English mother, Hunith!  
I wanted to expand a bit more into Merlin's life and the original work's featuring of a conversation between Rachel and her mother allowed for just that!
> 
> Do I know the first thing about the real-world English 1 %? No.  
Am I still going to write this? Yes.  
I hope you like reading this!

** _PART ONE_ **

** _“If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to”_ **

** _-Dorothy Parker_ **

* * *

_ Chapter 4 _

_ Merlin Emrys _

_ New York City, USA _

It was just after dinner time in California, Merlin noted as he glanced at the clock, and so he called his mother as he pushed the stack of papers in front of him to the side, needing a break from reading over his class’ most recent batch of half-concocted essays. 

“Merlin, you won’t _ believe _who just closed the deal on the big home on Laurel Glen Drive that I told you about!,” Hunith Emrys ebulliently proclaimed in a sing-songy tone when she picked up the call.

“Wow, congrats, mum! Isn’t that your third sale this month?” he asked, smiling, always feeling a warmth at hearing his mother’s cheerful accented voice float through their call. 

“Yes! I broke last year’s office record _ already _! I knew that I made the right choice when I joined Julian Capps at the Los Altos office!” his mother gleamed with satisfaction, sounding absolutely delighted.

Chuckling, Merlin replied, “You’re going to make _ Realtor of the Year _ again, mum, I know it,” he rolled his shoulders, letting out a small grunt at how one of his joints cracked. _ I’m getting old _, he thought, adding, “I have some exciting news for you too.”

His mother remained silent for a moment. 

“Arthur and you are going to have a _ child _?” his mother asked hopefully, “A surrogate? Adopt?” she continued, her volume increasing with every suggestion, making Merlin burst out into loud laughter. 

“Mum, _ no _ !” he managed to say through his laughter and his mother’s chiding scolds to not laugh at her, “Nothing like that, no, no! Why would think _ that _?”

“You know, I’m not getting any younger, Merlin,” his mother grumbled good-naturedly over the phone, he could hear the smile in her voice, “I want to be able to actually _ enjoy _my grandchildren!”

Merlin rolled his eyes even though he knew she couldn’t see him. 

“Don’t you _ roll your eyes _ at me, Merlin,” his mother scolded anyways as if she had some magical power and was able to detect his every facial expression. He wouldn’t be surprised though, what with the connection they shared. 

His mother and he had always been close, ever since he was a little boy he remembered a relationship characterized by love and affection by the plenty. She had been a single mother in a new country, an immigrant from Ealdor, a sleepy village in Cornwall, but she had persisted and prevailed above it all. It had always been them, just the pair, and Hunith had always been a dedicated mother, always there for Merlin despite juggling a series of jobs to keep them afloat as a working one-parent household with a growing child. She’d weasel her way and cajole her bosses to let her have just an hour and a half to go see Merlin perform in his school plays, to see him receive a district-wide scholastic award, to cheer him on at his track and field races. 

Despite the long hours she worked she would always come home and press a small kiss to his hair while he lay in bed, and their relationship had remained great even as he grew up. He could easily say that his mother knew him in and out and that he trusted her wholeheartedly with any and everything. She had always been and still was, a pillar of strength in his life, the person who had taught him how to work hard and to love with an open and generous heart. 

Chuckling and shaking his head, Merlin decided to just go for it: “Arthur invited me to come with him to England this summer, mum.”

“He _ did _?” Hunith remarked, her excitement evident in her tone. 

Merlin warned, knowing his mother too well to know what she was thinking of after he revealed his summer plans to her, “Don’t start getting ideas, mum!”

“What _ ideas _ ? My, when you brought Arthur home last Thanksgiving, everyone who saw you two lovebirds said that you were _ perfect _ for each other!” she proclaimed, excited and gushing, “Now it’s _ his _ turn to introduce you to his family, Merlin! My God, _ do you think he’ll propose _?” Hunith rushed out, already eagerly thinking about telling everyone that her son was going to get married soon. 

“Ugh!” Merlin groaned out, collapsing back against the chair. He knew this was going to happen, he knew his mother in and out just as well as she knew him and he had predicted that the moment she learned of their trip to England she’d start planning the floral arrangements and the color palette for the wedding. “We’ve never even _ talked _about marriage, mum,” he protested, letting out a small annoyed groan, wanting to downplay it. Even though he was excited too, deep inside, about the possibilities that hung over the trip, he wasn’t planning on encouraging his mother. 

Still, Hunith seemed to be brimming with earnest anticipation. “Besides, you’re already living together, it’s not even going to be a big difference, dear!”

“My God, I remember that you kept pushing me to move in with Arthur. You’re the only mom I know that is actually pushing their child to marry as quickly as possible!”

“I’m also the only mother out of my friends who has an unwed child! I’m the only one without grandchildren!” Hunith lamented, bemoaning, “Do you know how many people ask me about you, Merlin? Just yesterday, I ran into Horacia Pyle at Whole Foods. _ ‘Oh, that son of yours, Hunith! I know you wanted him to get his career started, but really, isn’t it time he gets married?’ _ she asked!”

“That seems rather nosy of her,” Merlin commented, already knowing where this story was going.

Hunith let out a deep breath, “That’s Horacia Pyle for you. You know that her daughter Annie is married to the _number four guy at Snapgram right_?”

“_ Snapchat _, mum,” he corrected, “And yeah, I know. Instead of an engagement ring, he endowed a scholarship in her and her mother’s name at MIT. It’s for engineering majors, isn’t it?” Merlin asked in a bored voice.

“Yeah, machinery thingies. And that girl is _ nowhere _ even half as good-looking as you are!” Hunith remarked with indignation, “Annie Pyle has got a _ crooked nose_, dear!”

“_ Mum _,” he chastised, hiding his chuckle as best he could. 

“It’s _ true _ ! It’s from that time that she got in a fistfight with Henrietta Ford, that girl who was a year under you! Do you remember _ what a mess _ that girl was in her teens?”

He didn’t reply to that, rolling his eyes at his mother’s encyclopedic knowledge on all the people he went to school with and the children of her friends too. 

She continued, “Your uncles and aunts gave up _ a long time ago _ , Merlin. They didn’t think you were going to be the marrying type, you’ve always been so free-spirited and independent and _ bohemian _and all of that, but I just knew you were waiting for the right guy!”

Merlin didn’t quite know what to think of his relatives writing him off as past his expiration date, nor did he know what about him his mother deemed _ bohemian _about.

“Oh but of course!” Hunith let out a wistful sigh, “you had to find yourself one of those eclectic and bookish professor types, just like you! He’s going to get on one knee, Merlin, _ I just know it _! You wait and see!”

Merlin instead requested, a hand lifting to rub slowly at his temples, contemplating if he maybe should’ve omitted telling his mum about the trip until they were back in New York, “Speaking of my aunts and uncles, please, mum, _ for all that’s good in this world _, do not blab about this to anyone.”

Hunith remained silent for a moment. 

She looked down at her phone screen where she had Merlin on speaker.

** _Hunith_ **

_ Joan, you won’t believe it _

_ Merlin got invited by his boyfriend to visit England with him this summer! _

_ He’s going to meet the boyfriend’s family! _

** _Joan_ **

_ Oh my God! _

_ His boyfriend? The professor one? The handsome one with the accent? _

_ I’m so excited, Huny! _

** _Hunith_ **

_ Yes! That one! _

** _Joan_ **

_ I have to call Ned and let him know! _

_ I’m going to phone Nigel too! _

“....Merlin, darling, your mother doesn’t _ blab _,” Hunith replied. 

“Fine, fine, just don’t tell anyone, alright?” he insisted. He didn’t want his entire family, who were also_ apparently traitors who'd written him off as a spinster _, to get their collective hopes up for his trip to London with Arthur for his friend’s wedding.

Hunith looked down at her phone at some incoming messages. 

** _Cousin Ned_ **

_ I just heard the news from Joannie! _

_ You need to congratulate Merlin on my behalf! _

_ Suzanne is excited too! _

** _Cousin Nigel_ **

_ When’s this wedding gonna be, Hunith? _

_ We're so excited for little Merlin! _

“Of course, Merlin, you have my word,” Hunith pursed her lips. 

“I don’t want you getting people excited, mum,” Merlin explained, sighing. 

“It’s going to happen, though, Merlin. I just know it in my heart!”

“Well, until something happens, we don’t have a reason to make a big deal, do we?” he countered, chuckling lightly. 

Shifting the conversation topic finally, Hunith asked, “And where will you be staying while you’re in England?”

“I guess at his parent’s place?” Merlin wondered aloud. He hadn’t put much thought into that, actually. 

“Do they live in a house?” Hunith asked, “Or an apartment?”

“Are you going to try and sell them a house, mum?” he asked, countering with a small chuckle, “I have no idea!”

“You must know these things, darling! What will the sleeping arrangements be?”

“_ Sleeping arrangements?_ Mum, blimey, I don’t know,” Merlin breathed out.

"Don't say blimey, Merlin", Hunith chastised, as if she hadn't used that word all through Merlin's youth to the point that the particularly British word stuck to his vocabulary. She let out a frustrated little sound. “Son, that is an important thing! You know, not all parents are as liberal as I am, dear. Us Brits are an interesting breed: what if his parents are all stuffy and vote _Tory_? What if they're the kind to like Piers Morgan?"

"No respectable person likes Pierce Morgan", Merlin replied dryly, quoting his mother's words that she proclaimed whenever she spoke about the TV presenter. 

Hunith made a sound of agreement but she continued, "You need to know these things, I don’t want them to think that I _didn’t raise you well_!”

Merlin sighed. He knew how his mother was, she meant well but managed to make Merlin stress over details that he never would’ve even thought about. 

“Don’t worry, mum. I’ll take care of it”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the fic! I'd greatly appreciate any kudos, comments or feedback if you'd like to leave some!
> 
> If anyone cares, I imagined a composite of Bebe Neuwirth, Kristin Scott Thomas, and Harriet Walker as Merlin's mum Hunith. I'm kind of leaning towards Bebe though, might be just that I've become obsessed with seeing old performances of hers online, haha! :)
> 
> (( I'm an American with no real knowledge of British customs and what words they use differently than us other than my sort-of research so if anything is incorrect, go ahead and point it out! ))


	5. Ygraine Pendragon, U.K.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's mother Ygraine tries to get more info on her son's boyfriend!
> 
> Do I know the first thing about the real-world English 1 %? No.  
Am I still going to write this? Yes.  
I hope you like reading this!

**PART ONE**

**“If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to”**

**-Dorothy Parker**

* * *

_ Chapter 5 _

_ Ygraine Arnive-Pendragon _

_ London _

After a few days filled with strategically placed phone calls and lunches out in the town, Ygraine had finally nailed down the source of the disturbing rumor involving her dearest Arthur. Laudine confessed that she had heard it from Sigourney Titurell who revealed she had heard it from her brother Shaun Titurell who’d gone to Cambridge with Lucius Gododdin. Shaun had the following to report to Ygraine:

“Well, I was in Canada for a conference, Auntie Ygraine,” he began, and she was glad that they were talking over the phone and not in person because she didn’t think that she could school her face away from a grimacing cringe when he called her Auntie. This boy was the son of that philandering Herman Titurell who for all his billions was still garbage if you asked Ygraine. She had no business ever associating with this child in his youth enough for him to deem it passable to call her by that affectionate familial moniker. 

He continued, none the wiser to the appalled look on her face, “At the last minute I got a call from Lucius who invites me down to dinner at the Gododdin estate in the countryside. Have you ever been there, Mrs. Pendragon? Blimey, what a palace! Truly, magnificent! I had no idea that Destailleur designed it, the very same architect who build Waddesdon for the Rothschilds!”

Ygraine just gave a sound of approval.

“Anyway, we’re dining with all these VIPs and MPs ✽ and, of course, Vivian Gododdin is holding court. We’re in the middle of dinner when out of nowhere Vivian pauses her conversation with Celine Dion and says loudly across the table to your sister-in-law Grace Pendragon, ‘ _ You’ll never even guess what I heard, cousin dear! Arthur has been dating a Welsh boy in New York and he’s bringing him to London for the Grail-duLac wedding!’ _ And Grace looks so shocked but she asks, _ ‘Are you sure? A Welsh boy? Good grief, what? Did he fall for some gold digger?’ _ And then Vivian goes something like,  _ ‘Well, I have it on good authority that he’s one of the Emrose boys. You know, the Meridian Enterprise Emroses. They might not be old money but they’re one of the most solid families to come out in recent years’. _ Oh, Auntie Ygraine, you should’ve been there to see! How have you been by the way? How is Mr. Pendragon? I heard that you-”

Ygraine had made quick work of ending the call before he could continue with anything else, trying to actually have a conversation with her. She had gotten what she needed. 

Had the news come from anyone else then at least Ygraine could dismiss it with more confidence. Brush it off as idle gossip from her husband’s bored relatives who had nothing better to do than to chatter. But this was coming from Vivian, who was always dead accurate with her reportings. She hadn’t earned the title of the BBC ✽ for nothing. 

Still, Ygraine wondered how Vivian had heard of this. Arthur would first tell the news to the mailman than to his big-mouthed second cousin. Ygraine surmised that Vivian must’ve gotten the intel from one of her spies in New York. By now Ygraine knew that Vivian had spies everywhere, in every continent and always willing to pass on a hot tip to the platinum blond and sucking up to her. 

To Ygraine, every single person occupied a specific space in the elaborately constructed and intertwined social universe of the uppermost echelons in her mind. Like most of the other women in her crown, Ygraine could meet another woman who came from either the British Isles or any other part of the world touched by the British Empire and within seconds of knowing their name and one personal relationship, she could easily implement her social algorithm and calculate precisely where they stood in her thorough map of the cosmos of those with astronomical pedigree and fortunes. Be it while shopping in the intimate’s section of David Jones in Sydney or attending a ballet performance at Convent Gardens in London, she could derive where exactly they were in her constellation based on who their family was, who else they could be related to, what their approximate net worth might be, how their fortune was derived, how new this fortune was and the added fact of how many family scandals might’ve occurred within the past 50 years. 

The Meridian Enterprises Emroses were very new money, having a fortune that was made in the seventies, possibly early eighties. Knowing practically  _ nothing  _ about the family made Ygrain feel nervous. How established were they in Wales? Who were this boy’s parents? How much did he stand to inherit? Did he have siblings? If yes, was he the oldest?

It was uncomfortably unsettling for her to not know who this boy was.

Ygraine had a long-held theory on men. She believed, no, she knew, that for most men, all those frilly notions of_ “falling in love”_ and _“finding the one”_ were all nonsense. It was about timing, Ygraine knew. Whenever a man was finished sowing his wild oats and being a stupid youth, whatever girl was there would be the right person they claimed they'd been searching for to settle down with. It’s how she’d been able to catch Uther at just the right moment. 

The men in her husband’s married in their early to mid-thirties, almost mechanically. Her son, Ygraine knew, was in that just-right age when she was ripe for the plucking. If the relationship that Arthur had with this boy was serious enough to not only bring him as his guest to his best friend’s wedding, but to bring him back home to attend said wedding then that meant things were getting serious. Serious enough that Arthur had avoided telling her that this boy was in the picture. Serious enough that it could ruin all of Ygraine’s ever-so meticulously and carefully detailed plans for Arthur. 

Since the day that she had received the news that she was pregnant, three months after her wedding to Uther, she knew just how much she would need to devote herself to everything being right for Arthur. She understood his value, his importance, even before she had given birth to him and seen him be passed to her mother-in-law’s arms before anyone even  _ considered  _ handing the newborn to her so she could cradle him. Constance had taken one look at him and a soft warm smile, so different from the hollow ones she always gave Ygraine, had appeared on her face. 

“ _ He has his grandfather’s eyes _ ,” Constance had declared as she held the baby close. Ygraine didn’t know then, she’d yet to even see the baby, but she heard Constance’s watery voice and she understood that the woman was referring to her deceased husband Aurelian. 

She knew what Arthur was. He was nothing less than the eldest child born to Constance’s firstborn male heir. The one who would ultimately receive the keys to heaven’s gates. 

She understood that since day one. And so, she had planned everything out, had coordinated everything with the utmost precision and care possible so that the day would one come: the day when her Arthur would receive everything. 

And this boy? Well, he was an unforeseen problem that could wreak havoc on her plans.

Ygraine needed to know what she was up against. She couldn’t launch an attack on an enemy if she didn’t know  _ who this enemy was _ . 

It was 6:45 a.m. in New York. Perfect time to wake Arthur up, Ygraine thought as she sipped on her Sunday tea. She picked up her phone and found his contact, dialing his number. The phone rang four times before Arthur’s voice mail picked up: _ “Hey, I can’t come to the phone right now. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” _

Ygraine had wrenched the phone away from her ear when the voicemail message began. She hated hearing her son’s “American” accent, a truly  _ tragic  _ sound. She preferred listening to his voice in his normal Queen’s English that he always spoke with when he was back in London. She left a message nonetheless, “Arthur, dear, where are you? Call me tonight and let me know all your flight information. Everyone on this side of the Atlantic but me knows when you’re coming home! Also, are you staying with your father and I first? Or with your grandmother? Please call me back.”

She put down the phone and then almost immediately brought it up again, a new plan devising in her mind. 

“Morgana, is that you?”

“Oh, hi, Auntie Yggy,” Morgana said. Ygraine was perfectly fine with Morgana calling her that, unlike that freaky Shaun Titurell boy,  _ who did he even think he wa _ -

“You sound funny, Morgana,” Ygraine frowned, “Why? Are you okay?

“I was just asleep, Auntie,” Morgana responded, clearing her throat, sounding still a little groggy.

“Why are you asleep so early? Are you sick?”

“I’m in Melbourne visiting my parents, Auntie Ellie. It’s midnight over here.”

“Dear Lord! I didn’t know you were away!” 

“Yeah, I came here from Paris before I headed back to England.” her niece clarified, sounding less groggy. 

“Oh! And how was Paris, my dear?” asked Ygraine.

“Lovely.”

“Did you do lots of shopping?” inquired the blond woman. 

“Not too much, Auntie Yggy,” Morgana replied as patiently as she could.  _ Did her aunt really call her out of the blue just to ask about shopping? _

“That’s nice, very nice my dear...Anyway, Morgana, I wanted to ask, have you been able to speak with my son recently?”

Morgana paused for a moment. “I talked with him over the phone a few weeks ago.”

“And did he tell you when he was coming to London?”

“No, he didn’t mention the exact date. I’m sure he’s going to arrive sufficiently before the wedding. He’s Lance’s best man after all, don’t you think?”

“You know, Lord! Arthur never tells me anything!” Eleanor cried, feeling deflated at the fact that Morgana wasn’t providing her with any new info she could use. She paused and before Morgana had even time to consider saying her goodbyes a new idea had formed in Ygraine’s mind. “Oh, Morgana! I’m thinking of throwing him and his new boyfriend a surprise party, just something small and nice here at my new flat. You know, to welcome them both, make them feel all nice. Do you think that’s a good idea, darling?”

“I think they’d both love that, Auntie,” Morgana responded genuinely, albeit taken aback at her aunt being so welcoming to Merlin.  _ Arthur you genius, what kind of charms did you work on your mother? _ she wondered.

“But, here’s the thing: I don’t really know what this new boyfriend would like so I don’t know how to plan the party properly!” Ygraine bemoaned, making sure that she sounded distraught about not organizing a perfect party for Arthur’s wretched wraith of a guest, “Do you maybe have some ideas? Did you meet him when you went last year to New York?”

“Yeah, I did,” Morgana replied casually, trying to get into a comfortable position on her bed again as she did. 

Ygraine’s grip on her phone tightened minutely.  _ Morgana went to New York to see Arthur last March, which means this boy has been around for at least a year! _

“And what’s he like?” Ygraine prompted, ensuring that her seething didn’t seep into her questions, “Is he very Welsh?”

“Welsh? I don’t think so, no. He doesn’t have an accent, Merlin seems completely Americanized to me,” Morgana answered before she immediately regretted having said that to her aunt. 

_ How detestable!  _ Ygraine thought. Brits who let their accents slip into some weird sounding pseudo-American voice were ridiculous.  _ Who the fuck was this boy? _

“So, his family is Welsh but he was raised in America?”

“I didn’t even know he was Welsh, Auntie.”

“Really? He  _ never  _ talked about his family back home in Wales?”

“Not at all, Auntie,” Morgana replied. What was her Aunt even getting at? Morgana knew that her aunt was prying, but she didn’t know what kind of information she was trying to obtain. She did know however that she had present Merlin as best as she could, “But he’s an incredibly intelligent and accomplished young man. You’re going to like him.”

“Oh, is he a  _ brainy  _ one? Like Artie?”

“Yes, exactly. I’ve been told that he’s considered one of the brightest up-and-coming professors in his field.”

Ygraine couldn’t believe it.  _ A professor? My God, was this some man older than Arthur? _

“Artie never mentioned what his specialty was. Do you know, Morgana?”

“Oh, he studies global relations, Auntie. Globalization and international economics, I think it was,” Morgana supplied, thinking that she was painting a  _ pretty  _ good picture of Merlin. 

_ So, a calculated and cunning older man. This is just getting worse and worse _ , Ygraine thought, silently judging and shaking her head. 

“Did he go to university there in New York?” Ygraine pressed, “Do you know?”

“He went to Georgetown in D.C.”

“Oh, yes,  _ Georgetown _ , I’ve heard of that one,” Ygraine nodded, sounding unimpressed.  _ The school in Washington D.C. for those people who didn’t get into Harvard,  _ she mused. 

“It’s a top university, Auntie,” Morgana defended, already knowing what her aunt was thinking when she gave the name of Merlin’s alma mater.

“I mean, if you have to go to an  _ American  _ school I  _ suppose- _ ”

“Georgetown is a globally recognized top university, Auntie. I think he got his masters from Yale. He’s incredibly down-to-earth and intelligent, Merlin is amazing. I think that you’re going to like him very much.”

“I’m sure I will,” Ygraine lied. She knew this boy was named Merlin,  but _ Hell, who even comes up with a name like that? _ she wondered. How was she supposed to devise a master plan if she didn’t know how the insolent boy’s name was spelled? 

“....Is that all, Auntie?” Morgana asked, hoping she could end the call quickly and just get back to sleep.

A sudden thought made a wide smile pop up on Ygraine’s face, “Just one last thing, Morgana! I’m thinking of having a nice cake made by your grandmother’s cooks, you know that Artie loves that chocolate cake and we can put their names on it! Wouldn’t it look so nice? ‘Welcome Arthur and Merlin!’, right?”

“That would be sweet, yes.”

“Do you know how his name is spelled though? Is it _M-E-R-L-Y-N_? Or _M-E-H-R-L-Y-N_? Does it have 2 Ns? Do you know?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s just M-E-R-L-I-N, Auntie.”

“Oh, my, of course!” Ygraine beamed, “You’ve been so helpful to me, Morgana!”

Morgana didn’t even know  _ how  _ helpful that information was to Ygraine. 

“Alright, I’m going to get some more sleep, Auntie.”

“Oh, okay then. Bye-bye!” and with that Ygraine hung up the call, a wide smile on her peony pink lips as she felt excitement buzz in her body. Her gamble had paid off!  _ Arthur and Morgana have always been thick as thieves-why didn’t I think of calling her sooner? _

* * *

✽ Abbreviation for “Members of Parliament,” used here to refer to British MPs, most definitely Tories

✽Some have alleged it might have the dual meaning of _Blonde Bitch in Charge_ with how easily, and ferociously, she commands her teams of spies across the globe that feed her intelligence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the fic! I'd greatly appreciate any kudos, comments or feedback if you'd like to leave some! Drink water, get some sleep and keep slaying, readers! :D
> 
> I've taken up the arduous and unneeded task of making it so that every character's name can somehow be traced back to either a character featured in the show or in any sort of Arthurian-related work: paintings, poems, songs, literature, haha, wherever I can get them!
> 
> (( I'm an American with no real knowledge of British customs and what words they use differently than us other than my sort-of research so if anything is incorrect, go ahead and point it out! ))


	6. Mordred and the Camlanns, Canada

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A look into the Camlanns, Arthur's cousins, as they plan for the upcoming wedding. 
> 
> Do I know the first thing about the real-world English 1 %? No.  
Am I still going to write this? Yes.  
I hope you like reading this!

**PART ONE**

**“If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to”**

**-Dorothy Parker**

* * *

_ Chapter 6 _

_ The Camlanns _

_ Toronto _

Most people driving past the squat off-white-colored building off of Kingston Road would assume it was some graveyard of bureaucracy, but the Ontario Athletic Association was actually one of the most exclusive clubs in the entirety of the Anglosphere. Despite its casual name, it was the first-ever athletic social club in the former British Crown colony. It boasted the legendary society doyenne Jane Loomis as its honorary president, and its restrictive membership rules included an eight-year waiting list open only to the most established families.

The OAA’s public rooms were fully entrenched still in late-eighties with its glass brick interior walls, heavy curtains, thick carpet floor and the pseudo-Memphis designs of the furniture. The rather antiquated decor was a result of members having voted for all of the Association’s money to be spent on updating and maintaining the sports facilities. Only the acclaimed restaurant had been revamped stylishly in the last years into a plush dining room with pale-seafoam green brocade walls and windows that overlooked the main tennis courts. One could view outwards to the matches at play while everyone was also seated with a view of the restaurant’s main doors, allowing the esteemed members to make a grand entrance in their apre-sport outfits and tennis whites, making mealtimes a prime spectator sport. 

Every Sunday at a little after 1:00, the Camlann family would come together without fail for lunch at the OAA. Regardless of how busy their schedules were and no matter how hectic the week had been, every one of them knew that Sunday steak at the Athlete, as they called it, was mandatory attendance by all members of the family who were in town. 

Dr. Lot Camlann was one of the world’s most esteemed neurosurgeons. So esteemed were his prized hands that he was famous for always wearing lambskin gloves-made to measure by Dunhill-to protect his hands whenever he ventured out of his home. He took additional measures to safeguard his adored hands from the wear and tear of driving, instead, he sat comfortably in the back seat of his chauffered Rolls-Royce Silver Spirit.

That was something that his well-born wife, the former Annaelle “Anna” Pendragon of England, felt was overly ostentatious. She preferred to simply call for a taxi whenever it was possible and allow her husband to make exclusive use of the chauffeured car. “He’s the one saving lives,” she’d say, ducking her head bashfully, “I’m just a housewife.”

Self-depreciation was quite standard for Anna, even though she was the true source of wealth behind the family. While yes, Lot made some considerable earnings as one of the world’s most preeminent neurosurgeons it was Annaelle who was born a Pendragon. Her mother was the imperious Constance Goddodin and her father the late Aurelian Pendragon, one of her sisters had married into the Windsor royals and another was married to Gordon Faithley. Her whole bloodline was impressive beyond belief and nosy people with a supposedly encyclopedic knowledge of the Anglosphere’s top families heralded that she’d inherit big time when her mother passed away. 

Though, one couldn’t tell from her penchant for those ill-flattering, frumpy and non-designer dresses. Or from the fact that she took public transport or how the only jewelry she wore was that same bib necklace with chunky plastic gems in shades of pink and orange that people were certain they’d seen on her since the mid-90s. 

Regardless of her appearance, Sunday lunch gave Anna and Lot an opportunity to check up on their children and inspect their grandchildren on a weekly basis. It was a duty that they (read:  _ Anna _ ) took with utter seriousness, focusing on fretting on all of them.

Their youngest son Gilli, “the layabout one”, was a hopelessly pampered good-for-nothing who they (read:  _ Anna _ ) constantly fretted over. He had just barely scraped through the University of Toronto and was now  _ “working in the indie film business” _ which was something his parents couldn’t even  _ begin  _ to comprehend. He had recently become involved with Sefa Brigide, an Australian soap opera star who claimed she was from a “good family from Victoria”, which did nothing to help his parents’ (read:  _ just Anna’s _ ) incessant concerns. The rest of the Camlann family wasn’t as blinded by her as Gilli was so they noticed that her accent sounded remarkably un-Victorian. 

Their daughter, Olwen, “the horsey one”, had developed a passion for dressage from an early age and was constantly dealing with her temperamental horses or temperamental husband. Her husband was Cole Weichmann, an Australian commodities trader of Jewish heritage, something that the Anglican Camlanns had trouble with at first. They were devoted Protestants, had always been, so when Olwen proclaimed to them that she was dating a Jewish boy that she’d met at the LSE both Anna and Lot (read:  _ just Anna _ ) had gone wide-eyed, appalled. In the end, Anna and Lot had acquiesced after Olwen conceded that any children they had would be raised Protestant (Cole honestly didn’t even care, “Sure, I mean, whatever,” he’d said) and that they would tell her grandmother that Cole’s surname was  _ Whitman  _ instead of Weichmann. 

Olwen described herself as a “full-time mother”. Regardless of what she said she was, the beautiful Olwen actually spent more time on the international equestrian circuit than raising her only child, a son named Taliesin who, due to all the hours spent with his German au pair, was becoming quite fluent in German and was developing a fascination with both schlager music and pop diva Helene Fischer.

And then there was Mordred, “the perfect one”, who was their firstborn. To all appearances, Mordred Camlann was the best one out of his siblings. He had breezed through Cambridge Judge Business School with the highest distinction, done a stint at Cazenove before it was bought by JP Morgan and was now a rising star in the world of Toronto’s private banking and wealth management world. He had married Kara Loghan, of a politically connected and pedigreed Welsh family, and they had three very well-behaved and studious children whose cute faces could front a Ralph Lauren Kids advert without any issue. 

But, privately, his parents (read:  _ you guessed it, just Anna _ ) worried the most about Mordred, mainly because he was spending so much time with all those flashy new money billionaires in America and Europe. He was always flying around the world every week to attend parties and they (read:  _ you get the gist already, it’s just Anna doing all the worrying here, Lot’s trying to catch up on Bake Off _ ) worried about how it might affect his health or his family.

That particular Sunday’s lunch was important because Annaelle had made it her goal to have the logistics planned for the family trip the following month for Lancelot and Mithian’s wedding finalized before dessert. It was going to be the first time that the entire family-parents, children, grandchildren, servants, and nannies too-would be traveling together and Anna needed everything to be planned perfectly. At exactly one o’clock the family began filtering in from all corners: Lot from a mixed-doubles tennis match with Galen Weston; Annaelle from church with Olwen, Cole and Taliesin; Kara and her children from their weekend tutors; and Gilli from having just awoken 20 minutes ago to some “wake up” head courtesy of his girlfriend Sefa. 

Mordred was the last to arrive, and as was typical, he was on his phone. He arrived at the family’s table, completely disregarding greeting any one of them as he took a seat, chattering loudly, saying some effusive thank yous to whoever was on the line. 

Cole turned to his wife.  _ Your brother is such an annoyance _ , he hoped his look conveyed.

She looked back at him,  _ I know, but at least we aren’t Kara. She actually has to wake up next to him each morning, can you imagine that?. _

“It’s all done! I just spoke with Kenny, and he wants us to use his family’s plane to fly to London,” Mordred declared with a smug smile, referring to his best friend Kendrick Hengist.

“For all of us to fly to London?” Anna asked, arching a brow in confusion.

“Of course!”

Kara immediately raised an objection, “I’m unsure if that’s a good idea, dear. First, I don’t think that it’s prudent for the entire family to be flying together on the same plane. What would happen if there’s an accident? Second, we shouldn’t ask such favor from Kendrick and his family.”

“I  _ knew  _ that you’d say that, Kara,” Mordred began, grinning, “That’s why I already planned it all out. First, Father and Mummy can go a day earlier with Gilli. Then, Olwen, Cole, and Tal can fly with us the next day and later that same day, the nannies can come with our children.”

“That’s ludicrous! How can you even think of taking advantage of Kendrick’s plane like that?” Kara exclaimed, outraged. 

Mordred rolled his eyes. His wife’s poking holes in his good news was annoying him slightly,  _ why can’t this bitch just cooperate?  _ he wondered. He explained, “K, he’s my best mate and couldn’t care less about how much we use his plan. He said it was fine.”

“What kind of jet is it? A Falcon? A Boeing?  _ Gulfstream _ ??” Cole asked eagerly.

“Why do your children get to fly separately? Why do  _ I  _ have to be made to travel  _ with my son? _ ” Olwen asked, her nails as she dug her nails into her husband’s arm, sending him a minute glare at how eager he was about her idiot brother’s awful plan. 

“What about Sefa? She’s coming too, you guys,” Gilli asked quietly. 

Everybody, including the children who had been told by their parents to not engage positively with their uncle’s newest girlfriend, looked at him in horror.

_ “Don’t say fucking crazy shit!” _ Mordred hissed, glaring at his brother and earning a chastising glower from Kara to  _ “mind your mouth in front of the kids, Mordred!” _

“I already RSVP’d for her!” Gilli continued, indignant, “Mithy and Lance told me that they were excited to meet her. She’s a big up-and-coming star you know, and I-”

“Some outback cattle station idiots watching trashy soaps might know who she, but trust me, not a soul in England has even heard of her,” Mordred snapped. 

“That isn’t true! She’s one of Australia’s newest stars. And that’s beside the point, Mordy,” Gilli protested, using that nickname he knew his older brother hated, “I want all our relatives to meet her during the wedding.”

Quietly, Annaelle considered the implications of his declaration. She really didn’t know  _ where  _ she went wrong with her kids but she decided to pick her battles one at a time. 

“Kara is right, Mordred. We can possibly borrow the Hengist family plane for two days in a ro1! In fact, I think that it would look incredibly inappropriate for us to fly in a private plane. Really, who do we think we are?”

“Father is one of  _ the most famous  _ brain surgeons in the world! You’re basically English  _ royalty _ , mummy! What’s the issue of flying on a private plane?” Mordred exclaimed in frustration, stomping his feet much to the wide-eyed shock of his wife. He gesticulated wildly too, nearly hitting a waiter behind him who was about to place a large bowl of radish, asparagus, and bibb lettuce salad on the table. 

“Look out Uncle Mordred! The food’s right behind you!” Taliesin giggled.

“Why are you  _ always  _ like this, mummy? Why must you always behave so provincial? You’re  _ so  _ filthy rich!” Mordred continued with his tirade as his sister rolled her eyes, “You can afford to be a little less cheap for once and have a sense of dignity and fly private!”

“Don’t talk about money in front of the children!” Kara whispered, giving his thigh a pinch.

His three children looked up from their math practice test books. They were all under the age of 8 but were hard at work since their father wanted them all to graduate at least a year early and attend Cambridge. The three children were quite used to seeing their father’s shouting rages at home but they’d never seen him get so upset, flared nostrils and reddening complexion, in front of their Granddaddy and their Granny Anna. 

“This has nothing at all to do with dignity, Mordred,” Anna said, tone calm and level, “I just feel that this level of extravagance is unnecessary and also unbecoming of us. Your father is a simple doctor and I’m just his wife. I’m no English royal. Mordred. What a  _ silly  _ thing to say!”

Sending him a withering stare that betrayed just how much she was  _ enjoying  _ his face go all gammon colored, Olwen interjected, “This is all  _ so  _ typical of you, Mordy,” she chided, using that childhood-era nickname that she knew he loathed being called, “You just want all of England to know that you flew in on Andor H. Hengist’s fancy plane. Now, if it were  _ your  _ plane, that would be one thing, brother. But to have the  _ shamelessness  _ to borrow a plane for three trips in two days is just unheard of, Mordy!”

“Sefa flies private all the time,” Gilli chirped brightly, smile fizzing away when everyone at the table ignored his comment. 

_ Why does she have to be such a bitch about everything?  _ Mordred growled in his head, thinking about his sister. He didn’t voice that thought aloud though. His mother would scold him for speaking in that manner to Olwen (even though that’s what she was,  _ a bitch _ ) and Kara would annoy him again about keeping his language clean in front of their children (even though the word featured prominently in all of his raging screams at home). Even though he wouldn’t ever admit it out loud, he was also  _ incredibly  _ afraid of Olwen: his sister might be a bitch but she was a  _ cutthroat  _ one at that too.

“Well, we  _ should  _ get our own jet,” Mordred stated, ”I’ve been saying just that for years now! Father, you practically spend half the month in the London clinic! And since I plan on expanding my presence in England in a big way in the coming year, I think that we-”

“Ta ✽ , mate, but I’m going to have to agree with Mum and Olwen on this one,” Cole interrupted, “I just wouldn’t want to be indebted to the Hengist family in this way.” 

Sure, the thought of flying in the Hengist family’s plane (which was probably fucking major) was an exciting one but he couldn’t stomach the thought of borrowing the Hengist jet. He had also been biting down on the inside of his mouth for the past minutes after he’d eagerly asked about the plane and Olwen had dug her nails into his forearm. She still hadn’t extricated her talon-like grip from his arm and  _ fucking hell it hurt so fucking much Oh Lord God hell oh my- _

“Why do I keep trying to do nice things to my ungrateful family?” Mordred huffed out, “You all can squeeze into Air Canada for all I fucking care!  _ My  _ family and  _ I  _ are going to fly to London on Kenny’s plane! It’s a Bombardier Global Express, it’s  _ huge _ , it’s  _ state-of-the-art _ and even has a  _ Chagall  _ in the cabin! It’s going to be  _ fucking  _ amazing!”

Kara gave him a disapproving look and Gilli’s eyes were wide as he took it all in, while Anna just looked at him blankly, mind running a mile a minute.

Olwen let out a small laugh, “Oh, c’mon Mordy, _ calm down _ -”

“ _ FUCKITY FUCK OLWEN, DON’T CALL ME MORDY _ !” he screamed, suddenly getting up and, in a flurry of flailing arms, boorish stomping, and hissy grumbling, he stormed out, leaving a rather relieved family in his wake. Others in the dining room just returned to their conversation, checking their watches discreetly to see how long it had taken for Mordred Camlann to have an outburst  _ this  _ time. 

Chuckling softly as he watched his brother-in-law’s retreating figure, Cole leaned close to his wife, whispering to Olwen, “Just you wait and see how their entire family plunges into the Labrador Sea on Kenny Hengist’s fancy-ass plane, babe.”

Even though she really tried, Olwen couldn’t contain her genuine guffaws of laughter.

* * *

✽ Slang, primarily Aussie, simply means “thanks”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the fic! I'd greatly appreciate any kudos, comments or feedback if you'd like to leave some! 
> 
> Reader, I wish you a lovely day: remember to get some sleep and stay hydrated! Slay the day! :D
> 
> I've taken up the arduous and unneeded task of making it so that every character's name can somehow be traced back to either a character featured in the show or in any sort of Arthurian-related work: paintings, poems, songs, literature, haha, wherever I can get them!
> 
> (( I'm an American with no real knowledge of British customs and what words they use differently than us other than my sort-of research so if anything is incorrect, go ahead and point it out! ))


	7. Arthur & Merlin, New York

**PART ONE**

**“If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to”**

**-Dorothy Parker**

* * *

_ Chapter 7 _

_ Arthur Penn & Merlin Emrys _

_ New York City _

Arthur was sitting on his battered and worn caramel suede armchair in their eclectically decorated living room as he graded term papers when Merlin brought it up.

He knew that Merlin had been worrying all throughout the day. That morning before they headed off to work he’d seen the anxious gusto with which Merlin had guzzled his espresso shot. When they’d gotten lunch together at Cornouaille, a pricy bistro that Arthur knew Merlin loved, the blond had hoped that the comfortable setting and a belly full of delicious panini would help his boyfriend feel comfortable enough to talk about whatever was troubling him. Merlin hadn’t though, he’d been his lively and charming and funny self as usual but Arthur could still feel the undercurrent of tension. 

Their relationship wasn’t a tense one, it had never been that way, unlike all of the previous relationships that Arthur had earlier in life. Granted, all of those girls and few boys that he had dated had been sent his way by his ever-doting mother who, with a bright gleam in her eyes, would present them to Arthur, her head already filling up with plans and thoughts. His mother always had a scheme and an ulterior motive. 

They were all of the same breed-arrogant and haughty-who felt that they always needed to follow specific social parameters that their own parents would always harp on. Arthur had loathed it, hated having to always think of the optics of the location of their date and having to see his date arrive with a swarm of security personnel as if they were the Commander in Chief arriving at an international summit. 

“Why does it matter who has gone to the restaurant in the past six months?” Arthur had once gruffly groaned out, sprawled on a settee, aggravated, as his girlfriend at the time stressed the importance that she wouldn’t step foot in the restaurant if the tidbit she’d been given by her friend that Hillary Leighton had dined there earlier in the month was true. He was beyond hungry and annoyed by her series of phone calls and emails to her friends to ascertain if Hillary Leighton had gone there or not. Her family didn’t associate with the Leightons✽, she said, and they’d need to find somewhere else to have dinner if it turned out that Ed Leighton’s youngest daughter had indeed visited the restaurant recently. 

He hated that every date had to be treated like nuclear peace talks and that every single aspect had to be approved by someone else. It had to be approved by his mother, by his grandmother sometimes, and on occasions, it was his date’s family who intervened and raised a doubt or concern. Damn it, he was _a 20-year-old uni student living on his own_, what did it matter if his mother didn’t approve of a certain other family whose grandson was hosting an epic party? 

His mind could easily supply memories of how stressful those previous relationships had been. Of sitting stiffly in a restaurant that he didn’t like but his girlfriend had chosen it after she found out that some girls in a popular crowd had gone there the previous weekend (“Artie, I’m not going to be one-upped by _ Sybil Vermay _of all people!”). He recalled resting his head in his hands as he was told that his summer holiday would be to Italy instead of Canada because _ Uncle Constantine _said so and, _ of course_, nobody _ever _went against his imperious Uncle Constantine. 

Things were so much different in his relationship with Merlin though. There was never a sense of duty with dating Merlin, a duty to uphold the family name or the duty to date, someone, he didn’t like if only because of business relations with their family. No, he was thrilled and _eager _to partake in every moment of being Merlin’s boyfriend, had been since the very beginning when he’d laid eyes on him and certainly after their first date.

Arthur couldn’t fathom how in love with Merlin he was. He couldn’t help the starry look in his eyes when he’d see Merlin in the glow of his laptop working on preparing a class in the depths of night. He couldn’t even feel bad about the stupid dumb look on his face when he’d wake up and have the privilege of holding Merlin in his arms, adorable Merlin with his dark hair fallen into his face, raven-colored wayward fringe and pouty parted lips and all. Slumbering softly, languid and peaceful as Arthur would pepper soft kisses to his hair and forehead to get him to wake up. 

Loving Merlin just came _naturally_. Their relationship was always fun, always casual in spirit and comfortable. He felt cozy with Merlin, liked their lazy Sunday 1:00 o’clock breakfast of slightly-burnt crepes (Merlin insisted that he be allowed to cook them, “Arthur, I know I’m a tragic chef but c’mon, at least let me _try _!”) and their spontaneous trips to fun dive bar concerts and performance art shows (as spontaneous as 2 university professors could be). It was just so easy, so easy to love Merlin with all his heart and every aspect of his soul.

Also, all of those previous flings had known him as Arthur _ Pendragon_, not as Arthur _ Penn_. When he’d come to America to work in New York City he’d left his true surname behind, abandoned it at the terminal at Heathrow where his mother, Lance, and Morgana had gone to see him off. He’d shortened it to the monosyllabic Penn, hoping to disassociate himself from his family name now that he was in a different country. It wasn’t that he was _ashamed _of his family, not exactly the case, more so that he wanted his new life in New York to be just that: a new life, a fresh start, a chance to begin again, and he wanted to do that without carrying the moniker of Arthur Pendragon. He didn’t want his interactions to be burdened with his name meaning that he was Uther’s only son, Constance Gododdin’s favored grandson, _ the scion of the fami- _

No, he was just Arthur Penn, professor of medieval literature and history at Columbia.

So, tension had no place in their relationship. Even in the evening when they’d had a delicious dinner of homemade chicken tikka masala and some glasses of sweet red wine, Arthur had still _felt _that tension from his boyfriend. Merlin hadn’t brought it up though, masterfully evading the topic as he talked about his student’s craziness and complaints about his department, the usual. But still, Arthur noticed that something was bothering him, could read it in the incessant knuckle cracking and the far-off and pensive look he’d have on his face at times before Arthur would pull him back into the conversation. 

“What’s the story when we’re staying at your parent’s place?” Merlin asked, clearly making the best attempt he could to sound casual, “Are we sharing a bedroom? Would they be too scandalized if we did?”

Ah, that’s what it was, he thought as he looked up from a particularly half-assed paper.

Cocking his head, he replied after a moment’s thought, “I suppose yes, we’ll be in the same room, babe.”

“You _ suppose _or you know?”

“Don’t worry baby, once we get there it’ll all get sorted,” he replied. 

Merlin didn’t seem to be satisfied with that as an answer. He noticed how the Emrys man’s mouth parted, ready to say something, but then he paused. There seemed to be a second-long inner quarrel in his beloved’s mind about it before he returned to his tablet where an open Vox article detailed the prevalence of dip-dyed products in home design. 

Arthur could see Merlin absentmindedly running his index finger back and forth over the lines of his other palm, his brow slightly furrowed. Arthur knew that gesture well, just as well as he knew Merlin as a whole. 

“There’s no reason for you to worry, Merlin,” Arthur said, the other immediately looking up to meet his gaze. 

Merlin shook his head though. “I’m meeting your _family_, Arthur. It’s enough to worry about, it’s us taking a trip to an important event for you and your friend and I’m going to meet your parents and your grandmother and I’m going to see Morgana again and-,” he was rambling, Arthur noted. He too noticed the distressed flailing of his hands, the wild gesticulating that he always did when his mind was whirring a mile a minute and not in a good way and the slight wobble of Merlin’s lower lip. 

Arthur stood up, setting the papers down on his seat as he walked over to Merlin’s position on the large sectional sofa. “Baby, I understand if you’re worried, I do,” Arthur immediately cooed when Merlin’s arms wrapped around him as he sat down on the sofa beside him. He noticed the slight shake in Merlin’s frame as he buried his face in Arthur’s chest and the blond hauled Merlin into his lap, “Babe, I’m so sorry that I didn’t see how much this was stressing you out. I didn’t know this was affecting you as much as it is, Merlin, but you don’t have to worry about our trip.”

And he truly hadn’t known. Ever since their tea at Lacy when he’d invited Merlin to England for their summer break, questions had started piling up. Where will we be staying? Should he bring his parents a gift? What were they like? What had Arthur told them about him? Arthur had taken it in strides and he thought Merlin was feeling good about the trip to London, his questions coming from curious excitement, not having a clue that his boyfriend was feeling so worried about it all. Mentally he scolded himself over that even as he rubbed gentle circles into the small of the dark-haired man’s back, pressing fluttering kisses to Merlin’s head. 

“I just want it all to work out,” Merlin mumbled quietly into the crook of Arthur’s neck, his breathing slowing and easing from its ragged pace. Arthur’s arms tightened slightly around the other man, nestling him close as he continued, “I’ve never met your family before and I...you’ve mentioned they’re important to you and you always talk about how much you love with your grandmother, and I just...I don’t want to ruin this.”

“Our trip is going to be fine, darling, really-”

Merlin shook his head as he pulled away slightly, “No, no, not the trip.” His hands came to rest against the solid firm shape of Arthur’s chest, sea-blue eyes meeting cerulean pools of celeste, “I mean, the trip too, I want it to go well, but I mean this,” and he motioned between the two of them, “I don’t want it to ruin this. Us.”

“Why would it ruin us? Never, babe, never,” Arthur quickly reassured, frowning slightly at the idea. He’d first be stabbed through the chest with a sword then give up his relationship with Merlin, he thought, and he asked, voice gentle, “What makes you think that this trip could ruin what we have?”

“I-I just...What’s going to happen if your family doesn’t like me, Arthur? You have such a good connection with everyone back in London, with your grandmother particularly, and what if everyone in London is disappointed that you’re going out with-”

Merlin was silenced by Arthur pressing a kiss to his lips, effectively stopping his rambling in its tracks. He hadn’t known that Merlin was as nervous about the trip as he was, and he certainly hadn’t believed that Merlin’s thoughts were broaching on “this trip could kill our relationship” territory. Their kiss was slow and soft and loving, and Arthur made an attempt to pour as much as his love and affection as he could into it before parting. His blue eyes searched Merlin’s, meeting those beautiful baby blues as a soft smile formed on his face, “Do you know how I know that my grandmother’s disapproval won’t ruin our relationship, Merlin?”

Eyes blown wide, filled with emotion, Merlin prompted, “How?”

“Because I know she’s going to love you as much as I do.”

“Arthur, but what if-”

“But nothing, babe,” Arthur shook his head softly, hands trailing down Merlin’s sides to rest at his waist. “We’re going to go to London and have a lovely time. Lance is super excited to meet you and Mithy has already demanded that you get to spend some time with her before the wedding too. My family is going to be delighted by you, truly, they’ll see that you’re marvelous and brilliant and kind,” he punctuated each of those adjectives with a small kiss to Merlin’s jaw, creeping downwards to his neck, “And it’ll all be great.”

It’ll all be great, it’ll all be great, it’ll all be great, was the same mantra that Arthur repeated to himself as he phoned Morgana. 

It was barely half-past 5:00 o’clock in the morning but Arthur had made it a habit of going for a morning run at that time, when New York City was still groggily opening its eyes for a new day. It helped clear his mind, got him focused and centered for his daily activities and helped drive any remnants of sleep from his body, jogging through the not-yet-busy streets of the metropolis, crisp air and the sounds of the city starting up. It was also probably influenced by his mother who always repeated her adage, “the men in your family always get such big bellies in their thirties, Arthur! It’s true!”

He had paused his run, taking a seat on a nearby bench and trying to regulate his breathing as he rang Morgana, hoping that she would be able to pick up the call. 

“Hello, Artichoke,” she greeted after a few rings, using that childhood nickname that he’d hated back when he was a little boy. He had grown fond of it as the years went on, though. 

“Morgs, hey,” he responded, smirking slightly as he heard her annoyed huff at the name that _she _had always loathed when they were growing up. “What are you up to? Can I steal you away from your couture-filled existence for a few minutes?”

She chuckled and replied, “Yeah, sure, sure, I’m all yours. Don’t be surprised if I stop responding though, I was going to call it a night when I heard my phone ringing.”

“Call it a night? It should be 10 over in London, Morgs, right?” he asked, frowning but joking in a playful teasing tone, “Or did spending upwards of a month in Paris make you have such jetlag returning to England that you must take day naps?”

“I’m in Melbourne, Arthur,” Morgana explained with a small chuckle, “I came to visit my parents after Paris. I’m heading back to London tomorrow though. It’s past 9 p.m. over here, actually.”

Arthur’s eyes widened slightly. “Shit, Morgana, sorry. I didn’t know you were in Melbourne.”

“Like mother, like son,” she mused in a sing-songy voice.

He paused. “What does that mean?” he asked before it dawned on him in the next instant and he groaned, “Bloody hell, don’t tell me my mother has been calling you.”

“That she has, dear Artichoke,” Morgana confirmed, “Called me to ask a whole lot of things about you and Merlin.”

“Ugh, ” Arthur groaned, “What kind of things?”

“She tried to get anything she could, it seemed. Asked about when you were set to arrive in London, but don’t worry, I told her I didn’t know,” she added, anticipating his question of if she’d revealed anything and she chuckled when she heard his sigh of relief.

“Did she ask you about Merls?”

“You know what, interestingly she didn’t ask a _ single _thing about her son’s boyfriend of three years that she found out about just this month who is coming to the wedding of the century where he’ll meet our entire family- _ oh, of course, she asked about him, you dollophead! _”

Arthur groaned in a slightly whiny tone, glad that there weren’t any of the typical judgemental-eyed New York passersby to hear him. “Wait. Dollophead?” he inquired, arching a brow even though he knew she couldn’t see him, “Since when did you pick up that word, darling cousin of mine?”

“I heard Merlin use it for you a couple of times. It perfectly encapsulates your stupidity, Artichoke,” and he could hear the grin in her voice. 

“Okay, alright, I’m stupid, we get it, we get it, but what did she ask about Merlin?”

“She just tried to get a feel for him, I guess. I told her about how he’s incredibly smart and how he’s a rising figure in academia,” she informed, “And she asked me how to spell his name too.”

“How to spell his name?” Arthur asked, frowning.

“Yeah, apparently she wants to throw you guys a surprise welcome party at her place when you guys get there. She said she wanted to get grandmother’s cooks to make you a special chocolate cake and then put your guys’ name on it.”

“What?” Arthur asked, bewildered because that didn’t sound like something that his mother would ever do. “This has to be part of some plan, right? I can’t be the only one that thinks this is part of some scheme my mother is behind, right?”

In a faux chastising tone, Morgana chided, “Really, Artie, is it so hard to believe that darling Auntie Ygraine can be kind without having an ulterior motive?”

Arthur guffawed and shook his head to himself, “We both know the special kind of woman that my mother is. She wouldn’t save someone from falling off a cliff unless she thought she could get something from them in doing so.”

“True, true,” Morgana agreed, amused, and she continued, “I can’t wait to see what kind of scheme Auntie Yggy comes up with though. Is that bad?”

“My mother’s plans are always entertaining, I’ll give you that,” he conceded, pensive, “But I can’t imagine what kind of stunt she’ll try and pull on Merlin and me.”

“What was her response when you dropped the bombshell on her?” Morgana asked, eager to know the details of what had happened earlier in the week when he’d called his mother in London (“_ Lord, Arthur! Until you deign to call your poor mother, really! I could’ve died in the past six months and you wouldn’t have even known since you don't care to ever pick up the phone and call me! _”) to tell her he was returning to the U.K. for Lance and Mithy’s wedding and that he was bringing a boyfriend.

Arthur mulled the question over. His mother had played up her surprise when he’d mentioned that he was dating someone over their phone call while he did laundry and Merlin was prepping for his International Trade & Globalized Economy class. He knew that she’d gotten the news already, hell, it seemed that _everyone _on both sides of the Atlantic somehow knew that he was in a relationship. So, her surprised gasp and proclamation of “what news! Oh my!” were quite performative, but she’d gotten rather quiet when he’d told her that Merlin was going with him to London for Lance’s wedding.

“Oh,” she had said, her voice cool and collected, eerily so, “Is that so?”

“Yes, mum, we’ll be going together. I already RSVPd for two with Lance,” Arthur replied, reverting back to the plummy Queen’s English accent he naturally had. 

The conversation had fizzled off after that. She hadn’t asked a lot of questions, but Arthur knew that she hadn’t needed to: his mother always found a way to get the information she needed. 

“She...well, she didn’t have much of a response, ” he admitted, sighing, “She didn’t say much after I told her that Merlin was going with me to London this summer. She stayed rather quiet.”

“A quiet Ygraine is a plotting one, remember,” Morgana warned, bringing up that quote they’d grown up hearing, mainly from the mouths of their aunts and other relatives who, though they’d grow divided on everything ranging from what random pub in the Scottish countryside served the best bridie to which one of them was the poorest (it seemed like a competition, each relative trying to out-complain others regarding their economic miseries despite them all being _billionaires _), seemed to all unite under the principle of disliking Ygraine. 

“My God, was this all a mistake, Morgana?” Arthur wondered aloud, suddenly feeling a heavy weight on his body as his mind conjured up scenarios of his mother trying to...do something, do whatever, “Is it a mistake to go back home? I came to New York for a reason, to get away, to not have to deal with all of it and...I don’t know.”

There was a pause and when Morgana spoke next her tone was warm, “Arthur, no, you can’t spiral down that rabbit hole. You would hate to miss this day that is going to be so important to Lance, you know that. And bringing Merlin to Lance’s wedding is not a bad idea either, you and I both know that. You’re just afraid of what’s going to happen with the trip, right?”

Arthur had been nodding along to everything she had been saying. She’d been able to read him since they were little, able to read him like the Beatrix Potter box set she’d been gifted that one year for her birthday that she’d engulfed in one sitting while eating their grandmother’s famous banoffee mini pies. She’d always been able to understand him, to know just what to say, and he valued that beyond what he could express. 

"Yeah, that's what it is," he nodded, swallowing thickly. 

She added, "Alright. I don't want you thinking those things, Artichoke," and this time the nickname carried warmth and affection that he felt through the phone. 

"Yeah, yeah, thanks Morgs," he replied with a sigh, letting out a deep breath. People were starting to emerge in the city and a couple passed him, running together with energized and panting-breathed chatter. He heard a loud honking noise as traffic picked up. 

"It'll be great, Arthur, don't worry."

The blond nodded. _ It'll all be great, it'll all be great, it'll all be great, it'll all be great_, he repeated to himself. 

* * *

✽ This due to a family spat that occurred about a decade and a half ago involving Paul McCartney, a priceless collection of Peter Lely portraits and a fistfight between grandsons outside an ASK Italian.


	8. Merlin & Arthur, NYC

** _PART ONE_ **

** _“If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to”_ **

** _-Dorothy Parker_ **

* * *

_ Chapter 8 _

_ Merlin Emrys & Arthur Penn _

_ New York City, USA to London, UK _

“Is this a prank, Art?” Merlin asked with a slightly nervous chuckle, thinking that his boyfriend must be pulling a prank when he steered him to the plush red carpet of British Airways’ first-class red counter at JFK. 

Arthur looked up from his phone screen where he’d checked in for them, flashing a small smile as he did, “I figured that if you were going home with me, then I should at least make an event out of it, Merls.”

“This must’ve cost a fortune, though,” Merlin voiced in a lamenting tone, eyes widening at the idea of flying first class, his gulping nervousness an effect of growing up in a working lower-middle-class household with a single mother. Spending this much money just..well it seemed unreasonable to him. 

He voiced his worry about the cost of the whole thing once more when they were directed to the Concorde Room, a luxurious waiting lounge for British Airways’ first-class fliers. His eyes darted around the area as he took a seat at one of the sinfully comfortable upholstered dining booths, Arthur seated across from him, sliding in casually as if this was somehow _ typical _for them, jet setting on first-class flights.

Why did their airport lounge have a goddamned chandelier?

“Don’t worry, babe,” Arthur eased, reaching out a hand to gently clasp his. Merlin’s eyes still wandered all over the place, taking in all the nattily-dressed people with their monogrammed carry-ons. He swallowed thickly, blue eyes returning to look at Arthur’s. 

“You didn’t need to spend all of this money though,” Merlin shook his head, ducking his head slightly. As a couple living together, they mostly shared their finances. They made basically the same salary and it made sense for them to share their money after Merlin had agreed to move into Arthur’s Williamsburg apartment. He knew that Arthur had gotten an inheritance from his grandfather, an inheritance that had been saved for him since his grandfather, who he always mentioned fondly, had passed when he was a ten-year-old boy. _ He must’ve paid for the tickets from there _, Merlin pondered, knowing that Arthur was smart enough to know Merlin would raise an eyebrow if he noticed that Arthur had spent that much on their flight.

A smartly-dressed waiter appeared and asked if he could get them anything. Merlin was going to decline when Arthur asked for a scotch on the rocks for them both, giving the young man a small nod before returning to look at him. “Babe, please, don’t get all in your head about this,” Arthur murmured, grasping Merlin’s hand in his and lifting it to his mouth, pressing a small kiss to his knuckles in that loving way that he knew made Merlin’s knees get all wobbly. 

“But-”

“Lance paid for them, Merls,” Arthur replied with a small smile, adding when he saw Merlin’s mouth open, “He got really excited when I told him that we were going together. Mithy and he insisted that I let them go all out on the flight.”

The waiter returned, setting their drinks down before them. Merlin grabbed his, taking a quick sip before he asked, “Really? Lance paid for this?”

Arthur nodded, leaning back into the booth, chuckling, “He insisted, babe. ‘You’re my best mate since forever, Artichoke!’” he imitated Lance’s voice by adopting the plummiest and most exaggerated English accent that Merlin had ever heard, prompting him to let out a small laugh as he continued, “And you’re going to be my best man and you’re bringing that _ dreamy _ Merlin bloke you’re _ always _talking about, c’mon, mate, c’mon! You haven’t been back home in years, let me make this special!’”

He still wasn’t all that happy that Arthur’s best friend had spent all that money on them, or well, he understood Lance making the flight a special thing for Arthur...but him? He supposed that he was an extension of Arthur, and it would’ve probably been weird for Lance to pay for Arthur to fly first class and then to send Merlin to economy or something…

“Baby,” Arthur’s voice brought him back to the present. Their eyes met, celestial azure finding oceanic cerulean, and he said, “Don’t get in your head about this, Merlin. Really, I want this trip to be fun and nice, I don’t want you to be worrying about everything.”

Merlin nodded. “Yeah, I want that too.”

“Everything is going to be alright, baby,” Arthur assured, his voice filled with warmth and love and he felt how the tips of Arthur’s fingers circled amorphous shapes into his palm, slightly ticklish. Arthur had always been a touchy-feely boyfriend, displaying his affection in warm hugs, sweet kisses and fleeting touches when they’d walk by each other: extending his arm so that his hand grazed along Merlin’s shoulder, lovingly ruffling his hair, giving his hand a fleeting squeeze. 

The Emrys man nodded, feeling his nerves dissipate slowly, but surely, thankful that somehow Arthur always knew how to calm him. He nodded again, with added gusto, and he repeated back with a small smile, “Everything is going to be alright.”

The guilty feeling that had descended upon his shoulders had lessened significantly by the time that Arthur, sipping at the last of his scotch, told him they were now boarding, but a second surprise soon came. They were boarding a hulking two-story Airbus A380, greeted by a beautiful stewardess with pinned-back auburn hair who looked like she had just materialized in front of them from a warmly-lit advert from a travel magazine. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Penn & Mr. Emrys,” the hat-wearing woman greeted in a movie-like accent, smiling dazzlingly, “Please allow me to show you to your suite.”

She turned and ushered them to the front section of the plane which consisted of twelve private suites. Merlin’s eyes widened as he felt like he was suddenly being transported into the swanky sitting room of a luxurious DUMBO loft. The cabin that the woman presented to them with a swooshing arm gesture and another Colgate-worthy smile consisted of two of the biggest armchairs that Merlin had ever laid his eyes on. Just looking at them and their buttery leather upholstery made his body feel like it was melting into a gelatinous blob. There were two huge flat-screen televisions placed side-by-side too and a full-length wardrobe ingeniously hidden behind a sliding burled-walnut panel. A Burberry tartan-printed cashmere throw was artfully draped over the seats, beckoning them to snuggle into the armchairs and get comfortable. 

The stewardess, with her Pantene-worthy tresses, gestured to the cocktails that awaited them on the center console. “A drink before takeoff? Mr. Penn, a gin and tonic for you, as usual, and a French 75 for you Mr. Emrys. Perfect to get you settled in.” She handed Merlin a long-stemmed glass of bubbly and _ of course _, they would already know his preferred drink. “Would you like to enjoy your lounge chairs until dinner or would you prefer for us to convert your suite into a bedroom after takeoff?”

“We’ll just enjoy the screening setup for a while, thank you,” Arthur replied with a polite nod to the stewardess as he drew Merlin close to his side. He dotted some kisses to Merlin’s hair as the other remained gazing at the room with an awe-struck sense of shock. “It’s a bit shabby but we can make do, right?” Arthur joked lightly, breathing in the lingering smell of the aromatic grapefruit-and-Moroccan-argan-nut-oil shampoo that Merlin always used. 

“Hell, I’ve lived in _ apartments _smaller than this, Art!” Merlin declared in open amazement after the stewardess had made her exit and was out of earshot. 

Arthur chuckled, “Lance will be very happy to know that you liked the flight.”

“God, Arthur, for treating us to this maybe _ I’m _going to have to marry him!”

The blond let out a small laugh as he shrugged himself out of his Patagonia jacket. “I mean, Mithy’s been incredibly stressed with the wedding so I don’t know how well she’ll take the news, Merls.”

Merlin laughed as he took a seat on the armchair, repressing a pleased sound at how sumptuous it was, how it swallowed him up cozily. “She’ll have to make do,” he joked.

“I mean, Lance _ did _say that you were cute when he saw a picture of you once,” Arthur teased and broke out into laughter when Merlin gave him a small shove. “Losing my boyfriend to my best mate at said best mate’s wedding, wow, doesn’t that sound like hijinks from some rom-com that you and Gwen would watch?”

The Emrys man nodded with a wide smile, “Honestly, yeah, haha!” He began fiddling with his remote, eyes widening as the screen turned on, “There are more movies than I can count, Arthur,” Merlin breathed out, gaze flitting between Arthur’s amused expression and the television screen where he was scrolling the selection of films, “Are you going to watch one of your crime thrillers? Oh, look, _ The English Patient _. I want to see that. Wait,” and he turned to look at Arthur, frowning slightly, “do you think it’s bad luck to watch a film about a plane crash while you’re flying?”

Arthur chuckled and rested a hand over his. “I’m pretty sure that was a single-engine plane, baby. And it was shot down by Nazis, I think.”

The enormous aircraft began to taxi down the runway and Merlin nodded before taking a glance out the window at the other planes lined up on the tarmac. Lights flashed at the tips of their wings, each one awaiting the time when it was their turn to hurtle into the open sky. “Being on the plane, it makes the fact that we’re going on this trip all the more real, you know?” Merlin pondered aloud, blinking slowly as he watched the planes disappear as their own airplane continued moving. 

Arthur had been thinking the same thing as he looked at Merlin. With the fuzzy halo of warm lights in their cabin and the sparkling sunlight coming in through the small window, his boyfriend looked alit with a golden aura. The light making the freckles that dotted his cheeks and along the bridge of his nose more prominent, made his blue eyes glimmer like gemstones. The slight under-eye bags did nothing to discredit his beauty, Arthur thought as he looked at his boyfriend, seemingly captivated as he looked out the window. 

_ How did I get so lucky? _ Arthur mused to himself as a small smile played at his lips.

“Real in a good way?” he asked. 

“Yeah. Real in a good way,” he answered, still looking out the window. “I’m excited,” he added a moment later.

Arthur smiled even though Merlin wasn’t looking in his direction. He intertwined his fingers with Merlin’s, “It all goes downhill from here, huh?” he joked, laughing when Merlin whipped around with a playful glare. 

“Oh, Penn, it’s been downhill since the day we met!” Merlin proclaimed with a wink, poking a finger into Arthur’s side, grinning at the loud laugh it elicited.

_ New York City, three years ago _

Merlin would like the record to show that he did not feel the fabled lighting-bolt strike the very moment that he first laid eyes on Arthur Penn in the garden seating area of the Tavola Ritonda. Sure, he was terribly handsome, in the way that was actually distracting. He was handsome in such a way that he seemed more at place gracing some commercial or Hollywood blockbuster poster as a leading man than as a professor. But Merlin had always been suspicious of good-looking men, especially good-looking British men. Upon laying eyes on him he immediately wondered what Gwen had gotten him into that time.

When Gwen Thompson-Whitley, Merlin’s colleague at Columbia’s Political Sciences Department, had walked into their faculty suite one afternoon and excitedly declared, _ “Merlin, I have just spent the morning with your future husband!” _ he had dismissed the claim fully. It was just another one of Gwen’s silly schemes. He didn’t even give it enough importance to look up from his laptop. 

“I’m being serious, Merlin!” she had cried out when she saw that she’d failed in capturing his interest. She walked to his desk, perching herself on the corner, “He was at a student governance meeting with me, This is the third time I’ve met him and I’m now fully convinced that you two would be an amazing match!”

Merlin, who had only been half-listening, looked up, “Student governance? Really, my future husband is a _ student _, Guinevere?”

She rolled her eyes dramatically, “No, _ Mer _lin! He’s the brilliant new professor at the History Department, He’s the faculty advisor to the History Organization, Merlin.”

“I don’t go for professor-y types, Gwen,” Merlin chided, shaking his head, “And certainly _ not _from the History department.”

Gwen made a small whining sound which finally got Merlin to look up from his reading of a Foreign Affairs article. “He’s _ different _, Merlin. I swear, he’s the most impressive guy that I’ve met in years. He’s charming and he’s HOT! He seems like a total sweetheart too, just perfect for you!”

“What’s his name? Maybe I’ve already met him.”

“Arthur Penn. He just started this semester, he transferred from NYU,” Gwen eagerly relayed the information, beaming.

“Oh?” Merlin looked up from his article again, his interest piqued in who the mystery fellow was. He hadn’t yet met him, that he knew.

Gwen nodded, “I do have to tell you something, though,” and she inhaled deeply, moving from where she’d decorously perched herself to the chair he had in front of his desk, “You have to _ promise _that you’ll give him a chance, though.”

Merlin met his friend’s eyes, staring her down. He couldn’t wait to hear what dysfunctional detail Gwen had omitted until that point and he met her cocoa-colored gaze, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“He’s...well, Merlin...he’s...he’s _ British _.”

“Oh God, Guinevere,” Merlin rolled his eyes, turning back to his laptop screen with a shake of his head.

The coffee-skinned woman let out a loud groan, “I knew you’d react like this! You have to hear me out though, you promised! He’s amazing, really, I swear-”

“Sure, I bet he is!” Merlin drawled, voice lathered in sarcasm, pointedly keeping his eyes on his laptop screen even if he wasn’t really reading the article displayed there anymore.

“He has a seductive little accent, Merlin. He dresses well too!” Gwen continued, “He had the most perfect blazer on today, Merlin, _ honestly _, rumpled in all the right places and-”

“No, no, _ no _,” Merlin shook his head, focused on his laptop.

“He’s so suave, Merlin! He’s like James Bond!”

“Which Bond?” Merlin prompted, chuckling. 

It was Gwen’s turn to roll her eyes as she slumped back into her seat. Making a scene of gruffing out a deep sigh and crossing her legs, the floral-printed fabric of her pleated midi-skirt dancing beautifully, “Daniel Craig? Pierce Brosnan? What does it matter? Every single time that a British guy even _ looks _ in your direction you give him the _ Merlin Emrys freeze-out _and they wither away into nothing before you even consider giving them a chance!”

“That is so untrue, Thompson.”

“It _ is _true! C’mon, don’t you remember the guy we met at Amite’s brunch last week?”

“I was absolutely _ nice _to that guy!” Merlin scoffed, looking up to meet Gwen’s accusatory stare. 

She shook her head, “Literally, no, you were awful to him! As if he had GONORRHEA tattooed on his forehead even though he was obviously interested in you!”

Merlin knew that what she was saying was true, but still, no, no, _ no _. He had endured too many of Gwen’s blind dates that he had decreed he wouldn’t go on another one. 

They had ranged from nice but not _ right _, like the date at Pelle Pub that she’d arranged with her neighbor Lincoln who, despite being undoubtedly handsome with his pulled-back titian hair, wry humor and charming smile, he simply hadn’t had the right chemistry with. They had hooked up two or three times but it had been very evident to them both that they weren’t what the other was looking for in a relationship, so they’d eventually stopped talking. 

Then there were those blind dates that were downright and utterly _ terrible in every sense of the word. _ Like when she got him to go out with her brother-in-law’s cousin, a guy named Joffrey, who was the grossest embodiment of frat-boy-turned-man-child and toxic masculinity that Merlin had ever encountered in his life. Merlin had politely excused himself mid-way through dinner after hearing just 5 minutes of the man’s ranting regarding Emma Watson and her feminism and how “ _ that bitch _ ”, as he so warmly called her, would do much better just looking pretty instead of “ _ blabbing fucking nonsense _”. Gwen had instantly apologized after he’d called her while making his way home, “I did not know that Joff was such an idiot, I’m so sorry, really,” she had insisted. 

There was also that time she’d set him up with Edern, a hot and tattooed guy from her pottery class in the Upper West Side (“he was _ so _ excited when I told him about you!”), who was very much _ straight _and apparently hadn’t been clued into the fact that their meeting was a date. 

“W-_ What _?” Gwen had faltered over their brunch the following Sunday, pausing between bites of her sweet potato pancakes. 

Merlin had rolled his eyes. “He talked to me about how he just started dating this _ girl _ in your pottery class. He talked about how he was glad that you’d given him my number because he was new to New York and _ didn’t have a lot of guy friends _.”

She’d remained quiet. “...I swear Merlin, I thought he was gay.”

“Did you, like, ask, Gwen?” Merlin asked, not believing her.

Again, she remained quiet. “...He wore a Troye Sivan concert tee one class though. And he’s _ really _ into Rick Owens and we talked about _ Celine Dion _ one time! C’mon Merlin, _ Celine Dion _, I just assumed!“

He’d groaned loudly that time, not caring about any of the cafe’s other patrons listening to his bemoaning wail as he smacked his forehead against the surface of their booth.

It went beyond just the failed track record that he had with Gwen’s blind dates, though.

It probably also stemmed from his youth. Growing up, his mother had ingrained in his mind that the correct course of life would include marriage, particularly marriage to a nice girl whose parents were British. For some reason, that was she always said to him when they dreamed up his future while sitting together in his bed at night, alit by the warm glow of his bedside eagle lamp, that one day he’d grow up and marry a pretty girl whose family was originally from _ Leicester _ or from _ Glasgow _ or _ Reading _ or _ Manchester _ or _ London _, the city depending on whatever came into her mind first.

When he had come out as gay the story remained the same, only it was a _ boy _ from Leeds or a _ boy _from Liverpool that he’d end up with, she’d say. He’d heard it enough times though, enough that whenever he met a British man who was in any way interested in men his mind went to his mother’s fantastical idea of his future, and he could already imagine them altar-bound after their first date. That deeply-ingrained idea had burrowed itself so much into his mind that he’d stuck around in some relationships that, when he looked back on them, were really nothing more than him conforming to what his mother had wanted for him.

There was that try-hard hipster guy in his senior year whose dad had been from Manchester who was more interested in Merlin tutoring him in Advanced Calculus than actually _ having _a relationship. They’d broken up rather unceremoniously on the steps of the hotel that hosted their prom after Merlin had refused to go to the hotel room that he’d gotten for the night to sleep with him. There was the built-as-fuck Alpha Epsilon Pi frat bro swimmer that he’d dated throughout his sophomore year at Georgetown who was from Belfast but who’d transferred to UCLA after their second year at uni, their relationship ending about a month before he’d left for California. 

Then there had been that Amherst-grad that he’d met while at Yale who was studying microbiology and who seemingly wanted Merlin to be his on-call cook whose grandfather had been from Nottingham. The Russian literature lecturer who was visiting from London, also at Yale, who was only interested in sex and droning on and on about the eschatological themes in the written works of Marina Tsvetaeva and the form of Gavrila Derzhavin’s oeuvre. It had been after that guy that Merlin had decided to put an end to his string of paramours that had, in some manner, a genealogical connection to the British Isles. It was much to his mother’s dismay over the following years that he had stopped dating “nice British boys”.

Letting out a sigh, Merlin shook his head, “I’ll prove you wrong. Want me to go right now and set up something with your British NYU charmer?”

Gwen squealed, an eager smile appearing on her face. “You don’t even have to! I already arranged for us to have coffee with him at La Tavola after work today!”

“What? You didn’t even _ know _if I’d say yes!” Merlin protested.

“I knew you’d cave though, Merls!” the coffee-skinned woman laughed, beaming. 

By the time the waitress at La Tavola came to take Arthur’s drink order, Gwen was giving Merlin’s leg a pinch under the table. “Are you mute or something? Enough with your Merlin freeze-out!” the curly-haired woman hissed into his ear. 

Merlin decided to play along and actively participate in the conversation after taking another pinch to the inner thigh, but it soon became apparent to her that Arthur had no idea that it was a set-up and, worse, seemed far more interested in Gwen. He was fascinated by Gwen’s background and studies (a political scientist specializing in political economics and a focus on revolutions and state-building) and asked her a series of questions on how their department was organized. Gwen basked in the glow of his attention, smiling dazzlingly and laughing like some coquettish nymphet. Between sips of his drink Merlin stared in barely concealed (read: not concealed at all) bewilderment at them: does this dude really not notice Gwen’s wedding ring? For real? Is this really happening right now?

It was during those minutes, eyeing the handsome man across the round table over the rim of his glass, that Merlin allowed himself to step away from his declared prohibition of British men in his life. He gave the situation at hand some thought as the waitress came and asked if they were ready to order, “the_ pizza capricciosa _, please,” Merlin had ordered as he watched his two dinner companions play conversational footsie. 

This guy didn’t seem to have the same MO as the other Brits whose attention Merlin had always tried so eagerly to earn. It was baffling, just how different this Arthur guy seemed from the other men he’d dated, and he didn’t know quite how to deal with him as the blond paused his conversation with Gwen to give his order to the waitress (“wood-grilled rostinciana with rosemary baby potatoes”). Sitting in the enclosed garden lit by vintage brass hurricane lamps, Merlin began to see, gradually and in a different light, the man that his friend had been so eager for him to meet.

Though it was difficult to place his finger on exactly what it was, Merlin found Arthur to be completely mesmerizing. For starters, his slightly disheveled brown leather jacket, white linen shirt and faded black jeans were reminiscent of some adventurer who had just returned from a globe-trotting trek of mapping the Sahara. Merlin had always had a thing for Han Solo and Indian Jones (read: _ a thing for a young Harrison Ford but, c’mon, who could blame him? _) and this guy, with his perfectly unstyled blond hair and that twinkling soulful gleam in his deep blue eyes, was checking all his boxes. There was that assured self-deprecating wit, the sort that all those British-educated boys were known for. There was a relaxed ease and comfortable worldliness to him that Merlin couldn’t even try and fake being disinterested in, finding himself pulled into the conversation. It was like this Arthur Penn guy was a new star in the wide void of space that he’d never encountered before but was now being subjected to his gravitational tug, soon finding himself chattering away as if they were old friends.

Gwen, at a certain point, stood up, announcing that it was time she headed home. Her husband would starve to death without her, she had joked, apologizing for her exit. “He’s a nuclear chemist, one of the finest minds in radiochemistry, but can’t properly cook himself dinner, can you believe?” she had chuckled as she gave Arthur a polite nod. Catching her eye as she lingered for a final moment at the entranceway back towards the main part of the restaurant, Gwen had sent Merlin an enthusiastic thumbs-up, Merlin replied with a small nod in her direction, hoping to convey his feelings of “I’ll give this an actual shot, Thompson-Whitley,” and then she disappeared. 

Their food arrived soon enough. Dinner was great and their conversation continued. Merlin asked more about Arthur and his career in academia as well as his education, going onto Arthur’s former athletic career while at Balliol. They gushed over their shared love of old Hollywood musicals and love of British comedy panel shows. As they sipped on some wine that Arthur ordered they delved into colorful anecdotes from their childhood and what they thought about last week’s episode of The Good Place, detailing their thoughts on politics and complaining about the New York City public transport system. Conversation flowed with such an ease that any onlooker would’ve probably thought they were already a couple. 

Their plates cleared, the lights slightly dimmed, and they ordered dessert. Neapolitan _ babà _that had a heavy dosage of rum, making them both laugh when they dug in. “I’m going to be tipsy after this, Penn,” Merlin had shaken his head slightly, smiling at the man as he ate some more, “You’re gonna have to walk me home.” He’d been kidding, just over-exaggerating how much alcohol content the dessert had, but Arthur had insisted on escorting him back to his faculty apartment once dinner had ended. 

“You don’t have to do this, Arthur,” Merlin had tried to say when they were outside of the restaurant after having split the check. Arthur had put up a brave fight, trying to get Merlin to let him pay for their date but Merlin had insisted so they’d gone dutch.

Shaking his head, Arthur had looked so handsome in the light of the city’s lampposts,“Lead the way, Merlin, c’mon.”

So, as they walked through Washington Square Park, Merlin allowed himself to drift closer and closer to Arthur. He let the blond man wrap an arm around him, the hand at his waist fiddling with the button of his denim jacket pocket as they strolled by a red-headed guitarist slowly singing. Their voice drifted gently in the night air. 

_ How could you leave me, when I needed to possess you? I hated you, I loved you, too... _

“No way, wait, is this Kate Bush?” Merlin had asked, pausing in his walking and gently reaching out to place a hand on Arthur’s arm who stilled too, “Listen...“

_ Heathcliff, it's me, I'm Cathy, I've come home _

_ I'm so cold, let me in through your window, Heathcliff, it's me, I'm Cathy... _

“Huh, I suppose it is,” Arthur had chuckled, a smile breaking out on his face, “It’s ‘Wuthering Heights’.”

_ Ooh, let me have it, let me grab your soul away, ooh, let me have it _

_ Let me grab your soul away, you know it's me, Cathy... _

The original’s reedy vocals and gaseous production with Bush’s gothic call had been changed. The singer sang, strumming slowly along her guitar and with an open case in front of them, her rendition slowed and drawn out. A melancholic and yearning ballad, their voice rich yet dreamy, that had arrested Merlin and Arthur some feet in front of the singing young woman. Each time that the girl repeated the chorus, _ “Let me in your window,” _ their voice, gentle and emotional, carried an aching love, a pleading request to be allowed in, _ “It’s me, I’m Cathy,” _ was an airy and insisting promise, a vulnerable baring of one’s identity and self. 

“It’s beautiful,” Merlin had breathed out. As he listened to the girl’s song, he allowed himself to nestle into the comfort of Arthur’s side. 

Merlin had smiled upon noticing that Arthur had mouthed along to the song as the girl crooned sadly, playing the song with a delicate slowness, and he allowed himself to feel at ease, pressed to the warmth of Arthur’s figure as they listened to the girl’s song. When the girl had finished, looking up with a slight flush to her cheeks at the realization that she had an audience, Arthur had joined him in eagerly complimenting the girl whose cheeks became the same cherry-red as her colored hair. “You were great,” he’d added, tossing a few dollars into the guitarist’s case as they parted, and it hit Merlin then and there as they started walking again.

Gwen had been right. This man, the guy he’d spent upwards of 5 hours engrossed in conversation with, who knew all the lyrics to one of his favorite songs by one of his most beloved artists, this guy who walked beside him, arm wrapped around him casually and pulling him close, he was the first guy he could ever actually see himself having something special with, something _really_ special. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the fic! I'd greatly appreciate any kudos, comments or feedback if you'd like to leave some!
> 
> (( I'm an American with no real knowledge of British customs and what words they use differently than us other than my sort-of research so if anything is incorrect, go ahead and point it out! ))


	9. Uther & Ygraine, Auckland and the U.K.

** _PART ONE_ **

** _“If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to”_ **

** _-Dorothy Parker_ **

* * *

_ Chapter 9  _

_ _ _ Uther and Ygraine Pendragon _

_ Auckland, New Zealand, and London, U.K. _

Uther sat in his favorite and comfortable wooden lawn chair out on the sun-warmed white sand of his waterfront lawn, gazing out at the wonderful vista of the ocean meeting the sky in the distance. His home in Herne Bay had been the first thing he’d purchased with the money from the trust that his father had left him when he’d passed, a colossal marine villa that remained preserved in its Edwardian style on the shore of Waitemata Harbour where he lived for the vast majority of the year. He was rarely ever coaxed to leave New Zealand, always saying that he’d only return to London for “the occasional funeral, christening or wedding.”

It was while turning his attention to the easel that stood beside him, canvas bearing the beginnings of an image of the sunset’s rosy and orange hues spilling along the glassy azure of the ocean, that his cell phone began to vibrate in the pocket of his shorts. The loud ringtone was an unwelcome and startling noise, Dusty Springfield’s “Breakfast in Bed” disrupting his tranquil peace. He knew that it would be Ygraine, his wife, on the line: she was practically the only person who ever called him. She had always insisted that he have his phone on him even though he’d remind her that nobody  _ ever  _ called him, telling him that she needed him accessible if she needed him in an emergency.  _ I doubt I’ll be of any use _ , he had thought but conceded despite not seeing how he could really be of any help in an emergency. He spent most of the year in Auckland while she was always traveling between London, Australia, and Canada.

He answered the phone and immediately pulled it away slightly from his ear, face twisting in alarm as the hysterical rant from his wife began. “Bloody hell, Ygraine. Speak slower, darling, I can’t understand what you’re saying. Now, why do you want to jump off a bridge?” he asked in his usual relaxed demeanor.

“You won’t  _ believe _ this, Uther! I just got the dossier on Merlin from that private investigator in Calabasas that Queenie Vermay recommended. You won’t even  _ believe  _ what it says, Uther,  _ I’m dying! _ ” his wife shrieked, her voice having progressively gained intensity and volume as she continued speaking. By the end, she was very much shrieking into the call.

Uther sighed, setting his paintbrush down. Oh boy. “Who is this  _ Merlin _ ?”

“You  _ senile  _ man! Do you not  _ remember  _ when I called you last week? Your son has been dating some wretched American boy in secret for more than a year and a half! And he has the cheek to tell me about it just days before he plans to come to London to bring the boy with him for Lancelot and Mithian’s wedding!”

Uther always found it interesting how Arthur was “ _ his son _ ” whenever he misbehaved or did something that angered his wife. Ah, but when she was happy with him? Arthur was all hers, she’d birthed him and carried him in her womb, he was her offspring and  _ only hers. _

“So, you hired a PI to check up on this boy?” Uther asked, arching a brow even though he knew she couldn’t see him. 

“Well of course, I did,” Ygraine responded in a matter-of-fact tone as if not doing so would’ve been ludicrous. She continued in a huffing urgent voice, “We know nothing of this boy and everyone is already talking about him and Artie, and-”

Looking towards the water once more, Uther stilled. There, a seagull stood by the lapping water, simply standing there, backlit by the disappearing sun and cast in a glow of grapefruit pink and mango gold.  _ Oh, Lord _ , Uther thought in amazement, gaze flitting between the bird and his canvas, needing to commit every detail of the white-and-grey-feathered bird to memory so he could add it to his painting. “I’m afraid that I can’t talk anymore, sweetheart. I’m in the middle of something very pressing and-”

_ “I’LL TELL YOU WHAT’S PRESSING! _ ” his wife all but screamed into the call, making Uther wince and quiet in his beginnings of a goodbye, “This report is even worse than all my worst nightmares put together! Your  _ stupid  _ cousin Vivian got it all wrong, Uther! I’ve always said she’s nothing but a  _ meddlesome worm with bad intel _ ! This boy, this  _ Merlin _ ,” and she said the boy’s name with a particular brand of hatred that made Uther already feel sorry for what his son’s boyfriend would have to endure, “isn’t one of the Emrose boys from the Welsh Emroses!”

“I’ve always told all of you to stop paying attention to Elena’s gossip. She never gets anything right. Anyways, what difference does it make?”

“What difference?” his wife’s voice was bathed in shock and he let out a discreet sigh, recognizing that he had said the wrong thing a moment later when Ygraine began screaming once more, “He’s being deceitful! THE WRETCHED BOY IS  _ PRETENDING  _ TO BE AN EMROSE.”

“Well, darling,” Uther chuckled, unfazed by his wife’s screaming, “If his last name is also Emrose then how is he being deceitful?”

“That's the thing! His surname isn’t Emrose, Uther! It’s Emrys, his name is  _ Emrys _ !” Ygraine countered, seemingly a mix of fury and giddiness that she’d revealed that to him. Uther rolled his eyes fondly, the two names sounded familiar enough so it was possible that one could get confused, he determined, but listened to his wife as she spelled out the name, driving home her point, “ _ E-M-R-Y-S _ !” 

“Oh, my,” he responded, trying to muster some enthusiasm regarding the topic to appease his wife. The seagull was still there, serenely standing as if posing for Uther. His hands itched to return to his canvas.

His attempt at enthusiasm seemingly wasn’t enough because Ygraine growled out an annoyed sound. “I’ll tell you just how deceitful the boy is! At first, the PI told me that he was born in America to an English mother, but after more digging around he found out that he wasn’t even really born in California!  _ He was born here in Britain and then he was taken to America as a baby when he was just six months old! _ ”

Uthe remained quiet, expecting his wife to continue and finally reveal what the big shocker that the PI had found had been. He had put the call on speaker so he could take a couple of pictures of the bird, knowing well that their call wasn’t over yet and hoping to be able to paint the bird basing himself off of the picture. “...And?” he prompted, not seeing what his wife was trying to get at, frowning lightly as he assessed the shots he'd taken of the bird, looking like the majestic king of the seas. 

“Ugh, bloody hell with you, Uther!” she screeched once more, and her loud cry, projected even more by the call being on speaker, seemed to startle the bird. The seagull flapped its wings and took off, gliding easily up towards the clear celeste. Uther cursed under his breath, staring at the retreating shape of the bird as his wife continued, “Aren’t you  _ listening _ ? The PI traced this boy’s family and they come from some no-name village that nobody has ever heard of! The investigator told me that they were most likely working-class, Uther. Do you get it? Do you see? HIS FAMILY ARE  _ PEASANTS _ , UTHER!”

_ Who even uses the word peasant anymore?  _ Uther pondered, amused. The word seemed so dated, like it only existed in the confines of a period drama. His wife would fit in perfectly in a period drama though, he rolled his eyes at the notion. 

“I think if you go far enough,  _ all _ of our families were peasants. Working-class people that eventually, through time, came to amass a fortune. But working-class in the beginning, sweetheart,” the man said, barely able to keep himself from chuckling because he already knew that it would set his wife off and-

“ _ STOP TALKING BLOODY NONSENSE _ . You haven’t even heard the  _ worst  _ of it, Uther!" his wife cried out, continuing her tirade, "This boy came to America as an ugly baby with his mother. But the father? Where’s the  _ father _ , Uther? There isn’t any record of the father, Uther, not even in the boy’s birth certificate,” ( _ “you got the boy’s birth certificate?!”  _ Uther tried to interrupt but was bulldozed by his wife’s continuing rant) “Not  _ anywhere _ ! That means that his parents must’ve never even been married! Bloody hell, do you see now?  _ A cursed ugly baby born out of wedlock to some nobody peasant family in a no-name village town of squalor!” _

Ygraine screamed at the top of her lungs, “ _ I’m going to fucking kill myself, Uther _ !”

Though his wife was immensely amusing in her antics, Uther managed to quiet his stifled laughter to try and ease her as he heard her ragged quick breathing on the other line and the beginnings of her little sobbing hiccups. “What’s so bad about that, darling? There are plenty of people who come from households where the parents didn’t marry. And they go on to have wonderful marriages themselves, they're fine! Look at the divorce rate here in New Zealand, love.”

Ygraine gave him a resigned sigh, her breath calming as she spoke. “Those New Zealanders are neighbors to the Australians, Uther. And you know those Aussies are all descended from criminals, what can you expect?”

“What about Gordon?” Uther countered, mentioning his sister’s husband and Morgana’s father.

“Gordon is different, Uther! He’s a  _ Faithley _ !” she cried out in protest, “You aren’t seeing the big picture here, Uther! You  _ never  _ see the big picture like I do!"

"Enlighten me then, darling," Uther sighed. 

"This boy is obviously a cunning and deceitful GOLD DIGGER! You and I both know that your son can never marry someone like that," she snarled. "Can you imagine what your  _ family  _ is going to say to me when he brings this gold-digging nobody home?”

“Why do you care what they say?” Uther sighed out in disinterest even though he knew that what his family said mattered immensely to her.  _ Everything _ seemed to matter intensely to her. 

Ygraine ignored his comment, continuing with a growling vigor, “Of course,  _ your mother _ is going to blame  _ me  _ for this! I always get blamed for  _ everything _ ! Surely you know how this will end, Uther, don’t you?”

Uther took a deep breath. This was why he tried to keep his distance from London.

“The ladies and I are looking into this boy’s family here in Britain," his wife continued, her breath quickening again.  _ Ah, so Yggy’s friends are just feeding the fires of her conspiracy,  _ Uther mused. "We need to know  _ everything  _ about this vicious snake of a boy. I don’t want to leave a single stone unturned, a single mistletoe left without a vow. We must be prepared for every single possibility so that this boy can’t throw anything at us!”

“Aren’t you going a tad overboard, dear?” he tried.

“We have to stop this  _ nonsense  _ before it goes any further, Uther! Do you want to know what Laudine thinks?”

Knowing that his answer didn’t matter he responded casually, “Not really.”

“ _ She thinks that your son is going to propose to the boy while they’re here in London! _ ”

Smirking, “If he hasn’t already.” he teased.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY THAT? Has Arthur talked to you? Has he told you something? Do you know something that I don’t? I swear by your old corpse of a mother, Uther, if you know something and are hiding it from me-”

“No, no, Ygraine, calm down, no, I don’t know anything, I was just joking!” he interrupted, shaking his head slightly. He did know things, though. 

Arthur was currently en route to London where he’d be welcomed at the airport by Lance and (if she could be pulled away from her recent marathoning of Tom Hardy’s filmography and last-minute wedding details) Mithian. He was going to be staying at Claridge's with Merlin until his grandmother invited him to stay at Camelot Park which would happen, Uther had kept easing Arthur and telling him it would all be fine, after Arthur visited his grandmother, by himself, the day after they arrived in London. He knew all of that because Arthur had told him, they telephoned each other regularly (though Arthur always called the  _ house  _ phone) and had just spoken two days earlier. 

He wasn’t going to tell any of that to Ygraine though.

A hand lifting to rub at his temples, Uther was already regretting having agreed to go back to England for Lancelot and Mithian’s wedding. He could've just stayed in Auckland, go on a relaxing walk along the beach and watch some Bake Off instead of flying to London. “You’re just letting your girlfriends work you up for nothing,” he attempted again, wanting to calm his wife, “It’ll all be well, it’ll all be great.”

Just as he said those words of comfort he saw a seagull slow down in its flight as it neared the beach. Gracefully, the bird descended until it landed on the sand. The white avian picked at the grains with its beak for a moment, letting out a small cawing sound before looking up, turning to look at Uther. Their eyes met, disinterested ocean green and beady animal yellow As his wife continued with her hysterical ranting the bird turned away and took off again.

Listening to his wife’s worried paranoia he stared longingly at the bird. How he wished he could just fly away from the conversation too. 

* * *

After finishing her call with her  _ useless  _ husband Uther, Ygraine made her way through the aromatic bushes cut into the shape of lions and horses as she returned to Annis’ bedroom through the pergola-shaded path. She was seething inside because she just knew that her husband was hiding something from her.  _ He probably knows when Artie is flying in and where he’s staying,  _ she growled in her mind, her hands balling into fists momentarily before she unfurled her clenched fingers. She had been banking on her husband revealing some sort of intel on their son but that clearly hadn’t worked out and her feelings of incompetence in the face of the impending disaster became a topic of conversation just some minutes later when she returned to Annis’ bedroom. 

The usual assortment of ladies-Laudine, Daione, Enide and the hostess herself-sat around the Viscountess’ palatial bedroom, eagerly wolfing down-in a rather unladylike manner-the mini Yorkshire puddings that Annis’ chef knew they loved. The ladies were eagerly chatting, occasionally flicking through their copies of the good book while mostly focused on helping the hostess organize her collection of Tahitian black pearls by color grade. It was after eating her third pudding in the same amount of minutes that Ygraine began to loudly lament her situation. 

“Arthur doesn’t even understand the  _ gravity  _ of the situation, ladies” she sighed dramatically, looking at her plate littered with crumbs, “He told me that he’s not even going to stay at our new flat when he arrives. He’s going straight to some hotel with the boy! Can you imagine? They’ll be canoodling like  _ sinners  _ there together!”

Daione shook her head, her extravagant updo pinned with jeweled accessories swaying slightly as she did, “What a disgrace, Yggy! Do you know what hotel they're staying at?"

Ygraine replied, "Of course not. Do you think he would tell me that? He loves leaving me in the dark about everything in his life! I don’t even know when he’s flying in."

Snickering, Daione commented, “They might even be en route right now!” 

The Tirmur woman made a disappointed tsking noise and she continued, "Sharing a hotel room despite not even being married! Some people might even think that they  _ eloped  _ and are coming here for their  _ honeymoon _ !” Even though she chimed in with a sad tone, the thought of any potential scandal that could bring down those high-and-mighty Pendragons (and, yeah, maybe Ygraine just a little bit too) made her fill with glee. She had opened her mouth to continue but closed it, redirecting her attention to the pearls in front of her when Ygraine’s expression turned even more forlorn and she received a disapproving glance from Annis.

“How dare that boy think that he can do that?” Laudine shook her head as she ate some more of the mini-Yorkshire puddings, sounding horrified around a mouthful of Annis' chef's wondrous creation. “Who does he think that he is? That he can waltz into England on Artie’s arm to the social event of the year without your permission first? He clearly has no clue how things work.”

Enide shared in their sentiment after a long sip from her cup of tea, “That vile boy, Ygraine, my God, coming to Lance and Mithian’s wedding as if he belonged here! He ought to know that he doesn't belong and he never will!”

“Children these days!” Laudine continued sternly as she lifted one of the pearls to better gaze at it, looking at it with a critically assessing stare, “They don’t know how to behave anymore. My sons are the same, Ygraine and you’re lucky that Artie at least  _ told _ you that he was bringing someone home. I never know what to expect from my boys: I have to find out through the  _ papers _ what they’re doing!”

“That’s the thing with sending your children to American universities,” sighed Enide, lamenting, “They become all Americanized and  _ awful _ , they’re near unrecognizable when they come back home. Imagine this: my daughter-in-law Pembrooke has forced me into making an appointment three weeks in advance just to see my grandchildren! She thinks that just because she graduated  _ summa cum whatever _ from Dartmouth ✽ that she knows better than I do about raising my grandchildren!”

“That’s such an un-Christian thing to do. To not allow a grandmother to raise her grandchildren, what a disgrace,” Annis said with an apologetic look on her face as she reached a hand out to add another pudding to Enide’s plate. 

Daione lifted up one of the pearls for closer examination. Annis always had the best jewels- _ but she has the worst husband out of all us!  _ the voice in her mind eagerly supplied so she wouldn’t fret over her friend’s abundant gems. “Now that America is broke and a total mess all those American girls want to come and sink their claws into our men. They’re so  _ uppity  _ and  _ sophisticated  _ and  _ college-educated _ ,” the blonde woman shook her head in distaste at the thought, “Do you remember Mrs. Rhead’s son? That Amherst wife of his purposely introduced him to the girl that would become his mistress, and then she used that excuse to get a huge divorce settlement. I heard the Rheads had to sell a whole slew of their vacation properties to pay her off!“

Enide let out a humph. “My Pembrooke was always so nice and so dutiful and such a modest girl,” she recalled, “Ah-but the minute that my son put a thirty-carat diamond on her finger she transformed herself into the damn Queen of Sheba! She wears nothing but Valentino this and Valentino that and  _ ‘Oh, my friend Peter Pablo designed this for me, mummy _ ✽ ” and that’s not even the worst thing! She makes my son waste so much money by hiring that whole Israeli security team to follow her all over the place! As if she were some big shot!”

Daione wrinkled her nose. “That is so awful, Enide!”

“I know! Who’d want to kidnap her? My son and my grandchildren are the ones who should have the bodyguards, not that flat-arsed Manhattan girl with a crooked nose!”

Hearing all of those stories from her friends was only worsening Ygraine’s mood. How was she going to be prepared for Arthur’s arrival when Uther refused to work with her as a unified front against the wretched wraith of a boy? She could already hear all the disapproving murmurs from her husband’s mother and his shrew-like sisters Grace and Vivienne and Annaelle and all that they’d say.  _ It’s all his mother’s fault _ , she knew they would be thinking,  _ that woman was never going to be a good enough wife or mother in our family _ .

Ygraine looked to the floor, swallowing heavily, “I don’t even know what I’d do if my Artie brings home someone like that...”

There was a beat of silence in the room before all the women began talking again.

“The Merlin boy will be lovely though, Ygraine!” Daione chirped with a weak smile

“He’ll be such a delight!” Laudine nodded eagerly.

“You know, not all Americans are  _ that  _ bad, Ygraine,” Enide eased, trying to conjure up a smile even though she honestly thought that Ygraine was going to have an aneurysm when she would have to face the wretched boy in person.

Annis stood and walked toward Ygraine, placing a hand on the center of her back and rubbing comforting circles into the chic sheer pleated blouse that the blonde wore. “Have another pudding, Yggie,” the Viscountess said, trying to soothe her friend as she passed her one of the Yorkshire pudding which the woman accepted, continuing, “Your Artie is such a good boy, Ygraine. You should thank our Lord and Savior that he isn’t like my Gilli. I gave up trying to get my Gillifred to listen to me ages ago, Ygraine. His father lets him get away with anything and everything. His father bankrolls his every madness, he pays and pays and I pray and pray.”

All the ladies assembled in the room knew about the migraine-inducing antics of Annis’ only child The Honorable Gillifred “Gilli” Brennenal. A rambunctious and obnoxious party animal, he had notably torn his way through Ibiza, Dubai and Bali before finishing his A-Levels and he would’ve failed out of King’s College had it not been for his father’s announcement that he was partnering with the University of Cambridge for a hefty donation to be put towards a scholarship program. The media gobbled his wild playboy bravado up with ferocity, splaying his drunken fistfights in clubs and his lavish spending on yachts with young starlets and scantily clad models in their tabloids. Rumors swirled around him that he’d already sired two children out of wedlock, one with an American adult film actress✽, and that he was frequently being sent to a “wellness” center in Germany for rehabilitation treatments pertaining to his cocaine and designer drug habit. 

Breathing out a deep sigh that she hadn’t realized she had been holding in, Annis concluded, “The Bible tells us that we must accept what we cannot change.”

Laudine’s eyes remained on Ygraine, wondering if it was the right moment to drop her bombshell. Deciding to just go for it after a couple of moments of Annis rubbing slow circles into Ygraine’s back while donning a crestfallen look, she cleared her throat. “So, Ygraine, I know that you asked me to do a little investigating into this Merlin boy’s family here in England and I don’t want to get you too excited…,” she was giggling inside at how Ygraine had looked up her, her eyes becoming wide and greedy as she heard what Laudine was leading up to, “but I might have some more information.“

“No way! What is it? Oh Laudine, is it something good?” the blond asked, her attention fully on the frizzy-haired redhead. 

“There’s a fellow who I’ve come into contact with who says that they have very valuable information on Merlin Emrys,” she continued, a hand reaching up to adjust her wide-rimmed white glasses perched atop her nose.

Daione perked up too, always one for gossip, “What is it, Laudine?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Laudine said seriously, “but the source is in Monaco.”

“Monaco?” asked Enide, her interest piqued as well, “Did they say what kind of information it was?”

“How did you find this source?” gasped Ygraine, pulling away from Annis’ comforting touch as she fully turned to look at the Dunlauk woman, her cerulean eyes wide. 

“A lady never reveals her ways, Ygraine,” Laudine chuckled graciously, adding, “But they said that information was very valuable and that they would share it in person with you if you were willing, Yggy. There’s a price tag of course.”

“You should go to Monaco right now, Ygraine!” cheered Daione. Whatever wild goose chase it was going to be she  _ knew  _ it would be entertaining. And if Ygraine was going to Monaco then maybe she could go too. For emotional support of course, not that she wanted to go on a shopping spree and blow a couple million in the principality’s casinos.

The excitement that had filled Ygraine seemed to have deflated from her though. “That won’t be a possibility, ladies. Arthur and the wraith will be arriving any one of these days and I can’t be away when my son finally comes home."

And it was true. She couldn't up and leave England right when her son was coming back home after years of living abroad. Ygraine could hear her husband's family murmuring amongst themselves when she was absent to greet her son and, regardless of appearances, she didn't want to miss the opportunity to see her darling Artie first thing when his flight touched down in London. Regardless of what people would say and regardless of the boy that he was bringing, she couldn't miss the chance to see him again in person after he'd left for Nw York years ago, to hug him and hold him, her precious son.

She shook her head resolutely. "I can't leave England right now, ladies," Ygraine stated, "Not when my Artie has been away for so long and-”

“Then it’s  _ precisely  _ the time for you to leave England,” Enide interrupted, suddenly smiling in a conspiratorial manner, flicking away a strand of her close-cropped pageboy haircut as she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her tailored grey trousers that she had paired with a demure silk periwinkle colored blouse. She explained, her eyes locked with Ygraine’s, “They aren’t even staying with you so you have the perfect excuse. If you’re not here, then imagine the narrative, Ygraine: you’ll be showing all of England that you’re not rolling out a red carpet for the wretched boy, that you don’t approve of their relationship!”

Laudine nodded, sending Enide a thankful look for having helped her sell the trip to Ygraine and she then prompted, “What do you say, Ygraine?”

The blond woman swallowed, looking pensive before she finally shook her head, glossy platinum hair swaying slightly. “I don’t know, ladies...”

“You’ll have gained some vital information if you go,” Annis encouraged quietly from her position beside Ygraine, nodding slowly, “Matthew 7:1 says ‘ _ Judge not lest ye be judged _ ’ but God would want you to have the clearest picture before you make your assessment of the boy.”

“Maybe this boy is already  _ married _ , Yggy. Or maybe he’s running a huge scam, maybe he has children, do you really want to risk not knowing who your son is bringing to your family’s home?” Daione asked, trying to contain her glee at Ygraine’s horrified expression at her suggestions.

“Bloody hell, I need a Xanax,” Ygraine whined, reaching into her handbag and furiously shaking her head at the possibilities listed by the Tirmur woman. 

“This trip will at the very least give you the opportunity to fully know who Artie is bringing, Ygraine,” Enide tried again after shooting Daione a glare, “And isn’t that a good thing? You just want the best for Arthur and knowing everything there is to know about this boy will let you guide Artie in the best direction.”

Ygraine’s rummaging faltered for a moment but she didn’t look up from her bag.

“I’d do it for my boys for sure,” Laudine chirped, hoping to seal the deal.

Still, Ygraine murmured, “I don’t know, ladies...I don’t know if I can risk missing him when he first comes to London and-”

“I think it’s the right choice to make, dear,” Annis added when she felt the other three women in the room staring at her, silently encouraging her with their gazes to add the final blow.

Ygraine paused in her rummaging through her handbag for her pill bottle. She considered everything her friends had said. _I just want what's best for Arthur_, she reasoned in her mind. And it was true: all her life she'd sacrificed so much, had given up anything and everything that had been asked of her to ensure the best for her son. That was why the appearance of his new boyfriend and the fact that he was bringing him as his plus one to the social event of the decade had shaken Ygraine up so. _Everything could be ruined, everything that I have planned for him for so long_, she thought, swallowing heavily at the thought. 

Letting out a deep breath, she nodded, meeting their eyes as she said, “Okay, you ladies are right. Enide, you’re absolutely right with what you said about the narrative! Laudine, can I stay at the place that you and Ewan have in Monaco?”

“Of course, Ygraine! We should go together, darling, we should leave this very afternoon!”

“Splendid! Who else wants to go to Monaco tonight? Annis, what do you say?” She hoped that Annis could get roped in and then they could use one of the Viscount’s planes.

The Viscountess pondered for a moment, all eyes on her before she finally gave a small nod. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t all go and provide Yggy some much-needed emotional support. I’ll have to make some calls and maybe have to do some pleading with the Viscount but we can have one of the Gulfstreams ready by tonight.”

The ladies cheered. “Ladies’ trip to Monaco it is!” Daione cried out, clapping eagerly.

“We’ll just have to make sure that the plane can be fly back here in England by tomorrow afternoon,” Annis chirped in, reaching over to give Ygraine’s shoulder another squeeze as she pulled out her phone with her other hand, ready to start preparing everything for their trip, “The Viscount is flying to Geneva to take over some Mabinogiggy medical research and pharma company. And I think that Gilli wants the plane for Lancelot’s bachelor party this weekend.”

Enide nodded. “It’ll work out wonderfully! We’ll go and have a lovely time in Monaco and Ygraine will get her intel on the wraith of a boy. Artie and the wretched devil spawn will arrive in England and find that nobody is planning on celebrating the boy coming to England!”

“It’s all the birds with one stone!” Ygraine agreed, “I’ll make it clear I don’t support this evil boy and I’ll return with valuable information!”

Eyes gleaming behind her thick-rimmed white glasses, Laudine nodded eagerly, beaming. “You’ll come back with valuable  _ ammunition _ , darling Ygraine!”

“This will be fantastic!” Daione cheered before she turned to look at the hostess, “Now Annis, what did you say was the medical company that the Viscount is planning on taking over?”

“Something Mabino...Mabonigianon✽, I think? Why?”

Popping another Yorkshire pudding into her mouth and shrugging casually she was thankful that from her position on one of the settees it wasn’t overly discernible that her left hand was inside her handbag, furiously texting her stockbroker, “Oh, no reason-Monaco it is, ladies!”

* * *

✽Pembrooke Asterly actually graduated summa cum laude from  _ Harvard  _ with an undergrad in psychology and went on to earn a Master's in Clinical Psychology from Yale and just recently finished a Ph.D. from Cambridge in Children's Developmental Psychology. But yeah, she doesn't know a thing. 

✽Enide is referring to Pier Paolo Piccoli, the creative director of Valentino who designed Pembrooke's wedding gown and had consistently dressed her ever since she became Mrs. Tennyson

✽Which is wholly untrue and if a certain Kristen Shifrin (known briefly as Scarlett Rogue) who resided in a sprawling Beverly Hills mansion and who was a single mother to a child who possessed a startling similarity to Gilli when he was 8 years old was being wired $800,000 monthly from an account in the Caymans well, that had nothing to do with anything

✽Annis actually means Mabinogion Labs, a Geneva-based leading medical research and pharmaceutical development company which was acquired just some short couple of weeks after by a shell corporation HQed in Bermuda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the fic! I'd greatly appreciate any kudos, comments or feedback if you'd like to leave some!
> 
> (( I'm an American with no real knowledge of British customs and what words they use differently than us other than my sort-of research so if anything is incorrect, go ahead and point it out! ))


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